A Detective for a Muse
by Nameless-Sufferer
Summary: John was just a doctor, trying to make due with playing guitar on the streets. He was good at it and loved preforming it, until he meets a certain Holmes that is more so interested in his personality than his music; what makes him tick and what makes him cry. ((I suck at summaries and all, sorry))
1. Chapter 1

_Hello there! This is the beginning of a new fanfic I have been dying to write due to reading far too many Johnlock headcannons. The first chapter is always the chapter that makes an impression but I will admit that this falls below even my standards, since I normally write 5000+ word chapters. Nonetheless, I will steadily improve my word count and the fanfic altogether! _

_This is my first Sherlock fanfiction so I hope it appeals to your liking in some way?_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock whatsoever. BBC and all that. _

* * *

Observing people, deducing their little brains, was all I was doing when I happened to cross him. At first, I thought nothing of it, another unlucky man whom was doomed to the streets of London until his death came, swiftly and abruptly. He wouldn't last long; nobody ever does. People change on the streets when starvation and the cold ways touch their hearts. People can be quite contradictory to their personalities when desperation is involved, yet that didn't seem to phase the man in front of me. He appeared like he wanted it to come, his quick end, which was surprisingly odd to even my statures I suppose.

He was no different than most people I have seen around these parts, an ordinary man with nothing special about him in the slightest. His clothes spoke volumes with the quality and the bad taste in general. A torn jumper splattered with remnants of perhaps his own blood and filth along a pair of denims, tattered at the hems. His shoes appeared to be almost like loafers, stained from mud and living in alleyways. He was plain to put it nicely, just somebody else to read like an open book.

"_Give me love like her,_

_'Cause lately I've been waking up alone,_

_Pain splattered teardrops on my shirt,_

_Told you I'd let them go..._"

Ah, yes. It was his voice I think that refrained my indifference stride from taking place. The voice of those whom have seen more than they let on; those were always the most intriguing to deduce. His voice was a key to it all, but he did well to hide his emotions from being too obvious from...well, those who are not nearly as intelligent to realize the meaning under his words. They were filled with emotion, more than should be placed into the song he was currently singing. Sadness, depression, forlorn, and lastly, regret. The regret was the most potent; it was a bitter, tangible resentment towards none other than himself. He was repentant of something of his past, possibly war considering the way he stood with his guitar. He was formal, but relaxed from the song of his and the emotions that refused to let him go. Interesting.

Tilting my head, I slowly inched towards the guitarist and observed his strumming fingers.

"_And that I'll fight my corner,_

_Maybe tonight I'll call ya_

_After my blood turns to alcohol,_

_No, I just wanna hold ya._

_"Give a little time to me or burn this out,_

_We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,_

_All I want is the taste that your lips allow,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my , my, give me love..._"

He plucked each string with professional talent, almost like he had been playing his entire life (perhaps he had). Each finger was slender and feather-light judging by how quickly they were willing to move to his little beat. They were almost a resemblance to doctors hands, no wait, those were doctors hands, surgeons fingers in fact. They moved like so as well, almost like they were prodding a patient for an illness. The faded wristband on his wrist with his name (I believe) and St. Claire's hospital was only more evidence to prove the talent.

He leaned on one side when he played, his right side, and avoided the use of his left shoulder at all. Injury more than likely. Scrutinizing his clothing, I noticed two dull dog tags hanging from his neck. One held the same name as the wrist band so it must be his own, but the other one was somebody else entire. Probably someone important to him or a close friend that died during a accident resulting in the gain of the tag. So he was a military man.

A military doctor seemed more likely than anything judging by his degree, but nothing added up. If he was a military soldier, or a doctor, he would have some sort of pension to last him for a while, at least enough for a cheap flat. Yet, here he stood on the streets playing his guitar.

"_Give me love like never before,_

_'Cause lately I've been craving more,_

_And it's been a while but I still feel the same,_

_Maybe I should let you go,_

_You know I'll fight my corner,_

_And that tonight I'll call ya,_

_After my blood is drowning in alcohol,_

_No, I just want to hold ya._

_Give a little time to me or burn this out,_

_We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,_

_All I want is the taste that your lips allow,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_Give a little time to me or burn this out,_

_We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,_

_All I want is the taste that your lips allow,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love._"

I began to examine his face. It's odd how he hasn't noticed my... observing yet. Normally somebody would have looked up by now to find me, well, not looking at them obviously. Nevertheless, he continued to play, oblivious to the rest of the world and its horrendous torments. His face was furrowed at the brow, concentration, and his eyes were closed off, so he concentrates better when he is just by himself as most ordinary human beings. His mouth was set in a thin line, anger or frustration, and a tear hung on the tips of his lashes, sadness. This song brought back painful memories but he feels it's his fault and continues to play to punish himself. He's a loyal soldier then; understands loss, but knows also when he's at charge for it.

As the minutes wore on, the only phrase he repeated constantly was "my, my, my, my, oh give me love" which is quite boring and obviously childish, but I didn't want to stop him. He was like a new toy, interesting until you realize its limitations. It was only a matter of time until his entire life story was laid out before me to judge on a balance scale of boring and dull. Right now, that time hasn't appeared yet.

"I can see you looking at me," I heard him whisper just loud enough for me to hear. I just stared back with indifference, "Yes, your playing his quite above mediocre it appears, so is it not normal to stop and enjoy the...setting?"

He chuckled and shook his head. I saw him take a breath and expected a response when all I got were more vocals.

"_Of all the money that e'er I had,_

_I've spent it in good company_

_And all the harm that e'er I've done_

_Alas it was to none but me_

_And all I've done for want of wit_

_To memory now I can't recall_

_So fill to me the parting glass_

_Good night and joy be with you all..._"

I wanted to speak out against him for not responding to my question, but the raw emotion in his words rendered me speechless. It was a sensation I don't ever want to feel. It made me feel weak and human.

"_Of all the comrades that e'er I had_

_They are sorry for my going away_

_And all the sweethearts that e'er I had_

_They would wish me one more day to stay_

_But since it falls unto my lot_

_That I should rise and you should not_

_I'll gently rise and I'll softly call_

_Good night and joy be with you all..._"

Ah, I understood now. This part was specifically for the people he lost during war it seems. The hidden allusions and the meaning behind most of his words were worthy of interest, but it still was nothing more than human sadness. It was common for people to feel sad for death even though it's quite trivial in terms that everybody eventually comes to the same end. He must of lost the person in a unnatural way. If he's a doctor, maybe he lost him at the table or gurney in the desperate process of trying to save him. That makes sense.

"_A man may drink and not be drunk_

_A man may fight an not be slain_

_A man may court a pretty girl_

_And perhaps be welcomed back again_

_But since it had so ought to be_

_By a time to rise and a time to fall_

_Come fill to me the parting glass_

_Good night and joy be with you all..._"

A final strum of the vibrant strings, "_Good night and joy be with you all..._"

He stood on the sidewalk, staring at his feet idly before shaking himself out of whatever stupor he was in. He looked as if he was about to play another song when I noticed his calloused fingers starting to crack and bleed. So he doesn't play everyday. He just played when he was younger and hasn't grown used to it again. The unseasonably cold weather didn't seem to be helping either as he tried to keep his hands warm. Idiot, that isn't going to do much unless you have gloves, which might I add, he does not.

"Your hands are starting to bleed," I informed the guitarist and he froze a little before shoving his fingers in his pockets, his acoustic guitar hanging on only by the strap around his neck.

"Yeah, they are, but that is of no business to you," he replied cautiously. So he didn't trust people as easily as thought. He probably earned that from the war background and the constant change of sides.

"Ah, I suppose not," I mused before questioning, "How are you liking London doctor?"

I saw him stiffen out of the corner of my eye and smirked.

"H-How did you know I was a doctor? And that I haven't been in London for long?" He was obviously shocked from my deducing.

Rolling my eyes, I turned to him and walked a step closer. People always asked the same thing, just different parts of their past.

"Your fingers."

He stuttered, "M-My fingers?"

"Your fingers are slender and fleet around quickly. They also always to be clean and sanitized, judging from the state of you nails, probably a five minute wash which is typical for a doctor before he even enters a hospital setting."

"Perhaps I just like cleaning my hands," He spoke defensively.

"Oh please. The way your fingers moved is obviously not the normal way for fingers to flit across the strings of a guitar. They flew like when you prod a patient, testing the vitals for specific symptoms. Also, may I add that you have recent indentations from possibly a syringe or stethoscope meaning that you were, past tense since you were obviously fired with the lack of an ID, scrubs, or medical supplies, recently seen by somebody who required such. Unless you are a drug user, which you are not, I don't see much else of an explanation to see why you can't be a doctor."

His jaw opened with a pop and I wanted to chuckle but decided against it, "As for the London part, don't bother saying you weren't going to ask since I could see the question fleeting to the front of your mind, you are a soldier, correct? The dog tags on your neck are recent, though you obviously don't take as much care of them as you did before. One is yours, the one at front I would presume since it matches the wristband around your carpals. The other is more reflective of light, better taken care of, so it's a good friend, no? Anywho, you are still walking like a soldier does and judging by how you respond and stand, you just got back recently. If I am correct, the most recent ship of soldiers that returned home were from overseas, and your tan concludes that you were in that area, and therefore, that ship."

As I gave this information to him, I saw him shake his head with utter astonishment. Hmm, usually people would be pissed off about now.

"Brilliant. Absolutely extraordinary."

I cocked my head to the side, "Extraordinary?"

He smiled a little with a light chuckle, "Yes. That was just... utterly phenomenal."

I gave a small smile of my own, "That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

My smile widened a little more as I remembered everybody who gave me a glare or a terrified pause, "ah... piss off."

The doctor blinked before giggling. It didn't take long for me to join in as well. The atmosphere seemed to have gotten significantly lighter with the little mentioning.

All was interrupted when the sound of my stomach was heard. Ah yes, food, that's what I was doing before being intrigued by the man next to me. I didn't want to eat, didn't need to since work was more important and, might I add, exciting. Breathing is boring. Eating is boring. Sleeping is boring. Cases and homicides were... rushing.

"I suppose that is your queue to leave then Mr...?" He inquired.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

He nodded, "The names John Watson, formally Dr. Watson, but John will do. Well, it was nice meeting you, mate. Hopefully I'll see you around here," with that he turned slowly to walk down the alley he came from. He looked sad with the heavy steps he planned and planted. It was a sad sight yes, but I felt no sentiment for the man. He understood what situation he was in.

Nonetheless, that didn't stop me from trying to find out more about him.

"Excuse me, Dr. Watson?" I shouted out to the slumping form. John turned around to look at me with mild surprise and relief.

He walked back to me and stood a few feet away, obviously unaccustomed to being close to people, "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

I groaned at the formalities. It was the same thing they called my brother and I'd like to refrain from being known the same as that individual.

"You can just call me Sherlock. I don't necessarily do well with formalities. With that said, isn't it normally a reaction to give the entertainer money or a tip for his performance?"

John blinked and didn't say anything.

I rolled my eyes, "Oh come on John. It's obviously you don't have anywhere to go at this time, right? Right. You had heavy steps, not the brisk stride of a doctor, meaning you were going to wander aimlessly, correct?"

He nodded slowly, "Yes...?"

I smirked a little at his response, "So, would you care to join me for brunch? I don't plan on eating anything, but if I'm seen eating with someone, perhaps... somebody will stop pestering me about my habits."

His hesitation was so thick it was almost visible.

I gave an exasperated sigh, "Oh come on John. It's my treat."

With a sigh of his own, more so resentment I suppose, he nodded, "Fine. Lead the way Sherlock. Thank you by the way... prat."

I chuckled softly at the insult and made my way to the cafe of my choice.

"Perhaps we could even bandage those virtuous fingers of yours while we are at it."

* * *

_Yeah...I cannot write Sherlock to save the life of me, but I promise to get better! I have been reading roughly 5 50+ fanfics as of late as well as rewatching seasons 1-3 of the series (going onto my 4th time) so I will eventually get to a good accuracy with him._

_John...I have a serious headcannon that he plays acoustic guitar. I have had it so yeah. It just seems... correct in one way or another in my screwed up mind._

_Oh! The song was Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran. Prepare for a lot of that guy since I'm a fan of his music and I'd like to imagine John singing those songs (I also have a specific Taylor Swift song set aside, but you won't hear that one just yet~)_

_But that's it! The next chapter may be up in a day or two due to my addiction. It's a drug that I can't get rid of._

_Ciao~ Reviews and criticism is always loved~~_


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello again. I'm sorry for the short chapter ugh. I was trying to make it long, but normally my first two chapters of anything are fillers for plot and story. The third chapter, on the other hand, will be long. I aim for at least five-thousand words with that one considering I get to write about a murder in all its gruesome glory. I love writing murders and enjoy thinking of planning one, but no, I don't plan to commit one. For now, fantasies and scenarios will have to work._

_Now, this one is a filler, not much happening, but it will get more interesting. I hope you recognize some of the quotes in this chapter since they are from the actual show with slight, slight changes._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock whatsoever._

* * *

I felt my eyebrows furrow as I watched John from across the table. He had his head low, almost like he was ashamed and trying to hide his face, and tried to eat as quietly as possible. Every little movement of his was silent as the light snow falling outside. Little contact was made with anybody, except the occasional glance at myself. He was trying to not gather attention due to the fact that he was a "low-life" talking to a man like me. How typical; sad, but typical. Nobody really cares here who is with whom considering that I aided one of the owners in this place. John really has no fear for anything, at least as long as I'm around, though I doubt he will take the advice from a man whom partially abducted him for brunch out of mere curiosity for his personality.

Speaking of curiosity...

"John," He jumped up and looked at me with wide eyes before closing them and opening them with light weariness, "You don't have to hide your face here. The people here don't necessarily care about the company much as they care about the appetite they have in the first place. Stop worrying about such trivial, boring things."

Really John. Worry and sadness are quite melancholy feelings that shouldn't be felt for more than a few hours. It's not good for your health, he should know, he's a doctor.

John looked back and me and smiled a little ashamed, "Yeah, sorry. I just feel a bit self-conscious right about now."

I nod, "Understandable. You are wearing old, torn up clothing and your complexion is quite filthy, so I can see your point," he was about to argue before I continued, "but, as I said earlier, nobody here cares about that. As far as they are concerned, your just another... colleague of Sherlock Holmes."

He huffed, "My clothes are perfectly fine," he grumbled and I raised a brow, "Okay, they are decent," I turned my face away in mock disdain, "Fine, they are in bad condition, but I don't have the money, nor the convenience, to go shopping for some high-class clothes such as yours. These clothes still fit me and as long as I occasionally sew up the ripped up parts, they are perfectly fine for another two weeks."

I give him a look of pity before wiping it from my face. Judging from his sagging shoulders and darkened face, he probably doesn't want any sympathy or pity at the time, especially my own. He is probably relishing the horrible memories as to why he had to resort to such methods. Ah, memories. It must be horrible sighting something and immediately having a flashback to the war zone. Guns in play, eyes peeled for the smallest of movements. He looked like he was having one of those moments judging by how he flinched at my experimental drop of the pen in my hand. He looked at me and glared at the smile on my lips.

It was amusing to see his reactions, despite how unmoral it was. I'm practically testing his tangible PTSD by preforming this, but boredom is a real and valid issue at this time. He wasn't doing anything interesting and pulling out his guitar was out of the question with how skittish he was and the fact that he thought he would attract attention. Perhaps I should question something... normal. Wait, no, normal is boring. Well, so is breathing, but I suppose it wouldn't kill me. Maybe.

"John, do you have a phone per chance?"

Tilting his head, he nodded and took his out. It was old, not any of the newer, more recent versions I have seen. All the same it was an electronic cellular device of some sort so I didn't care as to its condition. I held out my hand but he didn't immediately move to place the small piece of technology in my awaiting palms, "Why do you want it?"

"I need to text someone, but I appear to have left my phone at home," I smiled apologetically.

He didn't fall for it like most do, but rolled his eyes nonetheless, "Fine. Just don't hack the bloody thing please. Like I said earlier-"

"You don't have the money to spend on electronics and decent clothing. Yes, yes I understand. May I please see the phone now?"

Shaking his head, John slapped the phone into my palm, watching me like a curious cat or animal of sorts. He was worried by how I would treat his phone no doubt. Please, I'm a high-functioning sociopath, but I'm not a rabid beast. I do have some dignity in me, actually, quite a bit in retrospect to the observing John Watson. He looked like he would take away the toy if I started preforming anything discreet. That's no fun. I wish he would at least joke or something to make this less boring.

"Well? Are you going to text whomever you must?" He questioned curiously, eying my stilled fingers. I grinned and immediately started placing my number into john's cell while observing the marks on the phone, "Ah, yes. Sorry, I blanked out for a bit." Not really, but that seems the normal response to give.

"Your phone – it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then. Scratches – not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already." I caught a faint glimpse inside the phone and sighed as I clicked the okay button to enter my number, "Well?"

He blinked, "The engraving?"

"Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to love. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic-"

"Wait," John shook his head to shake him from his stupor, "h-how did you-"

I sighed and glared at him, "Should I continue or do you not want to hear the rest?"

He smiled a little, "Why for you to show off? Sure why not."

"Anyways, as I was saying. The three kisses says a romantic attachment but since it's only 6 months old, marriage issues were stated clearly, yes? Nonetheless, he's giving it to you. Don't give me that look John. If she had left him, he would keep it as sentiment, something to remember her by but no, he's trying to get rid of it so he left her. He gave the phone to you to keep in touch."

"How do you keep so much breath in those lungs of yours?"

"Off-topic John. Why are you not going to your brother for help? Trying not to disappoint?"

He shrugged, "I don't want to be a bother, and yes, I'm already a disappointment. No, I'm not going to explain that any further to you. I don't even know you yet you seem to know everything about me as if it was on Wikipedia for everyone to see."

"No, your just a open book. Not as open as everyone else, but an open one nonetheless."

Sighing, he glared at me with curiosity, not anger, "How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Oh john, give me some credit here. It was more of a shot in the dark, but a good one, correct? The charger. The power connection is jammed and slightly scratched indicating forced entry and also a adjustment of the mind to not be able to place the charger in correctly. Scuff marks around the edges indicate that he had shaky hands. These marks are a drunks. Something a drunk man can't leave without and a sober man would never do."

"Amazing," he breathed. Huh, that's a first.

I shrugged and rose a eyebrow to see if my deductions were on the dot or not. More so the first than the latter.

A little bewildered, John smiled, "your correct. Although your off by one point."

My eyebrow rose. A mistake?

He smirked as he leaned over, one arm what on the table and the other propping his head up, "Harry is short for Harriet."

I froze and blinked before swearing to myself. John seemed to find this amusing and laughed. I pouted, unaccustomed to missing a fact about someone.

A hand patted my shoulder and I looked up to see it was John.

"It's okay, mate. Everybody makes mistakes."

"I don't," I grumbled sullenly.

"Oh shut up, you just did."

Ouch. Rubbing some salt in the wound, John.

"No I didn't. I just forgot something. It obviously just slipped my mind."

John rolled his eyes, "Whatever you say, mate, but you don't seem the type to forget such a detail as that if you know what I mean. But whatever floats your show-off boat."

I shrugged, "I have talents. I'm going to use them, John."

"No your going to throw them around. I don't normally say this, but you're a arrogant bloke to others. You know that's not a good way to make friends."

"I don't have nor do I need friends."

John blinked at my cold voice, not expecting it in the slightest. He thought I was going to feel pity or guilt for myself. Well, I'm sorry John to disappoint you, but friends are not necessary in my life. Besides, nobody ever lasts long enough to be considered more than somebody I knew for a day or so, you being one of them. Friends don't mean anything to me. I get bored, eccentric, and at times, completely irrational to some so I there is nobody who can fully be capable of controlling and conversing with a creature at that. I'm married to my work and friendships would only get in the way of it.

I saw him take a deep breath, "O...kay, then. Um... I'm sorry to hit a nerve?"

I nodded to him silently and looked out the window, occasionally glancing back at John for an observation.

He appeared to like the sunlight, even if it was clouded by the light snow. Each flurry attracted his gaze and every little movement made him dash his attention to the next object. He obviously still held some oversea genes in him by how he kept an eye on anything that moved. His hands were constantly in a fist, but would occasionally flatten out to indicate his relaxation. He was a skittish man, afraid to stay in one place for long considering how he was tapping his foot. Even though his face was rotated to look out the window, his body was turned towards the door as if he needed to think of a quick escape at any moment. He didn't seem to adapt well to London at all.

If that was the case, why did he come here at all?

"John," He turned towards me again but his body was still in a path to the door, "Your phone?"

He blinked and watched as I slid his phone across the little table, "Thank you for letting me use it." I gave one of my fake, but satisfactory smiles to him.

"Ah, yes. Your welcome." Not much of a talker, eh?

"If I may ask Dr. Watson, why did you come to London?"

He smirked, "I thought you could deduce that already from just looking at my, oh I don't know, nose or something? You've been spot on so far, except for my sister. What's stopping you now?"

I shrugged, "Curious of your side of the story. Humor me."

He turned his body and full attention to me, trying to figure me out. Sorry John, only one person can do that and luckily he isn't here.

"Why are you so curious of my nature and my oh so boring life, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock," I corrected automatically, "and because your an open book with unfinished pages every other page of the story. It seems like every page of your book is cut in half so only half is revealed and the rest is hidden. I'm just piqued to hear the other side of the story, and to complete it."

"So you were bored?" He deadpanned and I shrugged before nodding.

"Yes, quite."

"And I just happen to be there for your little mind fingers to pick apart?"

I gave him a look, "mind fingers? Your vocabulary is rather surprising John since I expected something rather elaborate, but to answer your question, no. Your expression and the way you kept off from anybody attracted my attention. Mainly the thought that you were a doctor with the army, yet you have no money at all from serving with them. It's interesting really."

He looked away, a little on edge, "They had to let me go. That is all, nothing more."

I raised my eyebrow at him, "Don't lie to me John. I know there is more than what you say judging by how you can't look at me when you lie."

Glancing back at me, he sighed and deliberated what to say to me.

It was at that moment that I felt a vibration in my pocket. Performing my own little sigh, I opened up the text.

"Hey! I thought you forgot your phone!"

I smile mischievously, "I'm sorry John. I had to test to see how oblivious you were and I'm sad to say that you are more so than not."

Groaning a little, he sat down in the chair and leaned back all the way, arms crossed over his chest, "I swear. How do people deal with you on a day to day basis?"

I frowned, "They don't. I'm normally alone except for the occasional check-up from the land lady or a weekly murder case to solve."

"Murder cases?"

"Yes John, didn't you hear me? In fact, I have one here as well."

**Lestrade**  
_Triple Homicide, I'm sure you already know where._

I could feel the excitement enter my veins as the possibilities weld up in my mind.

"Sherlock?"

I looked up at John, who was eying my phone with curiously and then myself. He was already on his feet with his guitar case strapped to his back.

"Ah, yes, John?"

He was bouncing on both feet, feeling the need to go to somewhere safe in his standards no doubt.

"Does this conclude our.. brunch?"

I thought about it. I could say yes and have a goodbye returned to me in which I may never see the very interesting, but very dull and boring, doctor again. Or, I could mention the murder and see if he could diagnose the body. Anderson doesn't appreciate my qualities like John and I can't stand Anderson at all. His IQ could send signals to lower everybody else. John, albeit a little dirty, could be a tad better. He seemed a little interested at least.

"Actually, I was curious."

He stopped, "Yes?"

"Would you be able to diagnose a body?"

"Yes?"

"A dead one?"

He paused and eyed me wearily.

"Really John. I'm not the murderer, please, and if I was, I wouldn't let anyone find the body. Now, would you be able to diagnose the time of death or how the said victim died? It's very crucial might I add."

He thought about it and nodded, "Yes, I should be able to diagnose the body based on symptoms and the overall rigor mortis of the body. Why do you ask?"

I smirked, "I believe I might have found you a new job Dr. Watson."

He eyed me suspiciously, "A new job?"

I rolled my eyes in retaliation, quite annoyed by how he missed the obvious, "As my assistant of course. Well, not necessarily an assistant per say, but you will follow me around and help me solve murder cases when it comes that I need your help. That wouldn't happen to often of course since nothing stumps me, but you can aid with the common diagnosis of the murders I suppose."

His mouth flattened into a thin line before pursing at my proposal, "And, what makes you think I will take this 'new job'?"

I smirked, "Where else have you to go, John?" He blinked at my response, "Come on, John. It's going to be very not boring I promise. Every murder brings more games to play and right now, the game is on to track down the murderer of this case."

Sighing, he just glared at me, "Fine. But where will I stay? As we have clearly made sure to acknowledge before, I have no money at all. Bloody broke in fact."

I gave him a look. Wasn't it not obvious? I guess not or he wouldn't have asked.

"I thought it was obvious to you, John. I mean, you are a doctor, correct? Shouldn't you be able to deduct simple things? You will stay at my place of course!"

He sputtered, "N-No! I couldn't possibly-"

"Of course you can. I have a spare room and I've been keeping a keen eye for someone to be my flat mate. I suppose you will do considering that you haven't fled the cafe due to my deductions yet."

The sudden proposal must have exhausted him. 'He reacts very openly' I observe silently as his muscles relax in defeat. I saw him lean onto his hand and rub the bridge of his nose. He looked frustrated, but worn out, "I still don't know anything about you though besides that you are quite the annoying little pest that most wouldn't enjoy having on them."

I chuckled a little, "All in due time John. Nonetheless, I want to make sure before we continue. You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

He nodded, "Yes."

"Any good?"

He thought about it for a moment before nodding with a smirk of his own on his lips, "Very good."

I leaned on the table slightly, "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." I wanted to test his wits, to see if death scared him. I couldn't possibly have a man frightened of a little blood in my flat, that would be utterly exhausting. Emotionally and physically with trying to calm the man down. Then again, if he was I would probably take back my offer on the spare room...

"Well, yes." It was like he was mocking me a little but I brushed it aside.

"Bit of trouble too I bet."

A soft chuckle, "Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

Now I grinned, excitement peeling into my features, "Wanna see some more?"

He gave me a weird look and smiled despite himself, "Oh god yes."

* * *

_Sorry, I know this chapter was probably terribly hard to read through. Trust me, I'm not a huge fan of slow chapters either, but the next one is a GUARANTEE interest picker-upper. Trust me. I know my murders quite well. Plenty of research and nightmares do that to you._

_Oh, I know the fanfic may say JohnLock since it is going to be one EVENTUALLY. I'm a realistic guys. I know the duo won't fall head over heels in just ten chapters, that's like one of those rom coms. No, it will take quite a bit considering Sherlock and John's relationship. There will be obvious developments toward the ship, but not a 2 minute jump from just talking to sucking faces or something. =w="_

_Well, that's it! I hope to have the third chapter out within a few days at most. I can kinda shoot these out there every few days since school is boring, homework is boring, breathing is boring, but writing is interesting._

_Ciao~ Review and criticize please~!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Ugh, I promised murder and all the good stuff this chapter, but I can't do it in this chapter. Next chapter can have it, but I wanted to get this out to you and decided to leave it as this? I have the murder all planned out though :33 Every ounce of it. The deductions, the flaws, the clever disguises, everything! :33 I can't wait to see what you guys think then! This is more of a filler then plot I guess =w=_

_Well, enjoy!_

_((Do not own Sherlock whatsoever))_

* * *

**John**

"So, I get fired and hired in the same day," I concluded to myself, staring aimlessly out the window, "I can't _wait_ to see what he has in store next. I wouldn't be surprised if he had an elephant in his flat or even a dead body to be honest. Both maybe."

Using my index finger, I rubbed it against the condensed glass to draw figures. They were simple little drawings. A stick figured man here and a stick figured cat there; they were nothing more than doodles to pass the time. We must have been in this cab for roughly 5 minutes now and I felt bored out of my mind. I wanted something interesting to happen, blimey, even a harsh deduction from the stoic, stubborn man by me would be better than sitting here in silence and trying to be as small as possible.

Where are we even going? I heard him give the address, Flat 221B Baker Street it seems. Is that his place? I think I passed that area while I was wandering around the city for a place to rest and play. It seemed like a normal neighborhood for a unusual man like him. I expected him to live in a place like a mansion, but he probably doesn't like flaunting his wealth if he did have any, not like I care. I'll eventually get an actual job so I'm not chasing dead bodies and criminals, but that probably won't be until I get settled. The bloke was nice enough to offer anyways. It'd be rude to just walk out after he just asked.

"So... what do you do?" I questioned idly. Scolding myself for such a stupid question, I kept a eye on him, hoping for a response to escape this suffocating silence. Even the cabbie wasn't uttering a word or playing music.

He raised a brow at me, "Why don't you tell me? I'm sure you have a few deductions of your own."

I gave a chuckle and thought it over, "Well, you obviously are not a part of the police, you don't have a badge on you at all and you don't seem the type to enjoy it. That being paper work, of course," I glanced over to see him smiling and continued, "I would say a private detective..."

"But?" He inquired, eying me with curiosity.

"But," I started, "Police don't come to private detectives, do they?"

He smirked, "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world."

I blinked at him before chuckling lightly, "I've never heard of it before."

"That's because I invented the job. My own personal title you could say."

I rolled my eyes, "Of course you did. How did I not expect anything less?" I muttered this more so to myself than to Sherlock as I looked outside again, not really done with talking to him, but satisfied nonetheless. One could only talk to him so long before getting a tinge annoyed after all.

"Talking to yourself is making you look crazy, John."

I turned my face to glare at him. It's making me look crazy says the man who just abruptly picked a random man off the street for help on a murder of all things. He doesn't even look the type to trust people like me, so I don't get it. I don't get him.

"So is creating your own bloody job! Are you secretly mad?" I asked him, narrowing my eyes.

He laughed, "Actually, no. I'm perfectly sane if you mean I'm emotionally incapable, but if you mean that I do preposterous things to calm my boredom, then yes. I would say that I am mad. Anything else?"

I groaned, "When will we be at the crime scene?" I was starting to get annoyed a little, but at least I wasn't bored out of my mind.

He stared at me with bewilderment then with seriousness, "John, you do know how you appear right?"

I considered the attire and state I was in and nodded, getting the picture, "Yeah yeah. I know. I should probably take a shower and get some new clothes..."

"Yes. That would probably be best. Otherwise, people may think your just a stalker I have taken under my wing," he spoke carelessly.

My eye twitched, "Yes. That would be terrible, wouldn't it?"

"Utterly terrifying."

I shook my head and stared out the window, muttering to myself, "I'd still appear more decent then the corpse itself. A warm shower wouldn't hurt either. I've been in these rags and tatters for way too long."

**Sherlock**

I peeked over at John before looking away. It was true I needed a flat mate, or actually more so that everybody else thought I needed one. They said I was too antisocial but don't they understand I'm married to my work and don't have the time to make "best friends"? I don't even have one friend, not that I am complaining of course. I don't need them anyways, never have, but I have a feeling that if I hadn't chosen one, they would have enforced it to the point that they'd pay somebody to move in with me. That was out of the question or more so unbearable. What if the man/woman was another Anderson?

I'd rather jump off a roof top than associate my flat with him or any of his likes.

I sigh and watch as we turn on Baker Street. At least I persuaded John to at least see the flat. Though, he did seem rather reluctant. I can understand why, but shouldn't he be grateful that he isn't living on the streets like the homeless circle I know? I would prefer a flat to the streets, so shouldn't he feel the same? Nonetheless, I suppose I am a stranger to him. He would probably leave, like most do, but at least he is attending it. The flat won't be a silent void of nothing for a few minutes, not that I am agitated when it is, it's just nice and different.

As we were slowing down, I threw some cash in the drivers face and jumped out. I heard the commotion behind me intensify as a quite confused John Watson followed suit. His face was quite comical but I held back the chuckle. He probably wouldn't enjoy that. Though, I will admit, he was a bit slow, considering he was a soldier with quick reflexes. He was probably used to the cab stopping before leaving it like most people. Boring people. Well John, I hope you learned you lesson. I am not "most people" and am not related to anything of that certain adjective. I tapped my foot a little to emphasize my impatience, but I made it so subtle to see if he would notice it.

He did and looked up to me with raised eyebrows, "You are quite the impatient man are you not?"

I gave him a blank stare, "Problem?"

Shaking his head, he waved the cabbie off, "No. Not at all. I just have never seen anybody utterly excited about somebody's death."

I smiled, "Isn't it fun?"

"Not when it's a living person. Like I stated earlier, the victim was a living individual and now they're murdered in some bloody place unnatural I would suppose. How is that fun?"

I frowned, "I was hoping you would go a little deeper than that John."

Rolling his eyes, he jogged a little to catch up to me at the door, rarely using his cane at all. Eying the useless utensil, I realized the limp he held before wasn't as noticeable as before. Actually, it was near non-existent meaning it was psychosomatic. It was triggered by stress or even memories of his past. He has a therapist obviously. Who else would he console with about his "terrible" days as a medical doctor? She seems to often bug him about using the cane but it's clear he doesn't like it and tries to avoid using it at all costs. Of course, this only emphasizes his limp, another aspect he greatly dislikes.

I looked around him before looking at him again.

"What?" he grumbled, confused as to why I was looking everywhere but him.

"Your...guitar?"

His eyes widened and I heard him swear as he remembered that he left it in the cabbie, "Bloody hell. I-. Is there any why I can call and get it back?"

I shrugged, "I highly doubt it John. You don't even have a number to begin with to dial and the odds of you getting the same cab again are a slim chance, don't you think?" His shoulders slumped at my deduction and a small amount of pity entered my thoughts before being swept off. The guitar was precious to him, a family heirloom? No, not that important. He uses it daily, or at least he did before he left for overseas. It was a gift, probably from his mother gathering from the sharpie scroll on the back and the significant little note that only a mother would leave for her son's... perhaps 16th birthday. He got it while still in school, but not too young. The wear and tear on the instrument was one of being handled and played everyday for at least 2 years. He obviously went overseas at 18, or as soon as he could, so 16 was the most reasonable age group. He treasured it so his mother might have passed soon after he got it. He holds it dear to him. Sentiment really.

"Did you play for your mother when she was dying?"

He looked at me with wide eyes, "w-what? How did you-?"

I shook my head, not bothering with an explanation for once, "That's of no importance. Did you play for your mother when she was dying?"

"I'm not even going to hide my awe in how you knew that, but to answer your question, yes. I-I played for her when she was dying."

"What of?"

Another sigh, "lung cancer. Terrible really. We didn't even know till the week after my birthday."

I gave a small smile. I understood the shock, but of a different scenario, "What did you play? Wait, no, don't answer that. You made your own composition of music did you not? Probably something slow and intricate to make peace with your mother, correct?"

"Yes. It was a small piece. I believe I called it Shattered... Maybe some day I'll play it again, if I ever get my acoustic back again that is."

I opened my mouth again but he swiftly cut me off, "No more Sherlock. We have a case to get to correct and you won't let me go anywhere near it without me being of decency so let's get into the flat of yours."

"It's your fault for taking so long getting out of the cab."

His eye twitched slightly, very slightly. "Sherlock! I swear... You are supposed to wait for the cab to stop before jumping out, not the other way around," John huffed as he caught up to me at my door. I shrugged and was about to walk in when Mrs. Hudson revealed herself behind the door, a smile tugging on her lips.

"Sherlock! What have you been doing? I came out here to see what the noise was about, but instead I find you and..." her voice drifted off as she eyes John. Ah, she suspected it to be a possible love interest. I could tell she wanted me to find someone to "mellow me out" and relax with. Doesn't everybody? No, I'm the exception. Always have been. I'm married to my work and I won't divorce it for little simple matters as dates and remembering anniversaries or any of that trivial nonsense.

I could John was uncomfortable, sensing the meaning of her gaze on him, "colleague. Sherlock... wanted me to see his flat for a possible flat mate? I'm sorry if it is of any inconvenience to you." He shuffled slightly, giving a sheepish grin to the mother-like figure.

"Oh! No, no, no dear! Don't apologize. I was just surprised since Sherlock has never brought anyone home in interest of sharing a flat," she leaned into John as she tried to whisper something, but I could still hear it, "He's so alone the poor dear! I hope that you stay."

John chuckled lightly as I rolled my eyes and sauntered into the flat. I was immediately met with a wave of warmth and sighed, glad to be back at my flat, even if it was for only a few short moments. It was warm compared to the chilly scenery outside, a lot more... livable really. Furrowing my brow, I tilted my head and sniffed the air, only catching glimpses of what the object in question was. As I realized what it was, that being chocolate chip cookies no doubt, a smile spread on my lips. She was cooking something because of my apparent incapability to cook something without it turning into an experiment or just not eating at all. Nothing could get past Mrs. Hudson though. She constantly badgered me to eat so I'm not all "Blood and bones". Always on my heels with a plate of pancakes or a bowl of soup she was. Now though, I don't have time. Even if I wanted to stay and chat, I had little time to actually enjoy a meal with a exciting murder case on my mind.

With that, I briskly walked up the stairs, making my steps a tad heavier to indicate to John to follow.

"Ah, I believe I should be following him now. Thank you Mrs. Hudson for letting my stay, even if temporarily," John spoke as he walked up the stairs as well. It pleased me that he knew the subtle signs by now, considering the short amount of time we have been even together. He was trying to catch up to me, that much was apparent, but his limp came back. That was probably my fault for mentioning his mother. When he walked and how he used his cane every so often for leverage were indicators that it was flaring up. Perhaps the stress of the situation and the sudden invitation had been bothering him as well, making his psychosomatic limp ever more apparent in terms of posture and step.

Waiting for him on the top step, I opened the door and walked in. That was when I heard his steps cease.

Turning, I saw him stare at my (or what used to be) living room with a mixture of astonishment and bewilderment. It took me a minute to realize that my accommodations might not have been in their best state at this time. Books were scattered from the last case and files were thrown roughly on the couch. I had board games stacked gallantly on the bookcase, almost tipping over in fact. A cup of cold, half-drunk tea was on the end table, completely forgotten. A few test tubes and flasks with a toe here or some other experiment there were placed in various places as well, but was mostly condensed in the kitchen.

Speaking of the kitchen, I believe we are out of milk...

"So... This is the flat of Sherlock Holmes I presume?" John asked with a hint of uncertainty.

"Um... Yes, well you see, I could tidy this place a little. It's just that I haven't-"

John held up his hand, "No need for explanation. I kind of assumed it would be like this since your mind normally reflects your type of living," he shrugged, "we'll just have to clean it later. Now, I don't have any clothes to change into so..."

I blinked. _We'll_ just have to clean it later. Not you. We'll. Maybe I haven't scared him off yet... Interesting.

Right clothes, "Ah, give me a moment. I might have some clothes I can spare until you gather your own. They might be a tad big," I mentioned, idly measuring his height to my own. Yes, they would be quite big on him. He might have to roll the cuffs to his liking to make it work.

Rushing to my room, I pulled out one of my suits. I rarely had any casual wear so hopefully this will work for now. I walked back outside only to see John talking with Lestrade who was eyeing me with raised eyebrows, obviously curious.

I furrowed my brows, "Lestrade? What are you doing here? I thought you would be at the crime scene by now."

He chuckled, "I was until I realized that you were uncharacteristically late to the body and decided to make sure you weren't knocked out," he motioned to the room, "I'm surprised that you haven't yet to be honest from this mess."

I rolled my eyes and gave the suit to John, whom was eying Lestrade warily. I should probably introduce the two before things get out of hand.

"Ah yes, John, this is Jeff-"

"Greg," Lestrade corrected.

"-Lestrade, Private Investigator at the Scotland Yard. Lestrade, this is John Watson, army doctor and soon to be partner with crimes."

Lestrade smirked a little, "Found yourself a man that can stand you _and_ move in with you? Color me surprised." I could tell he was joking and chuckled in return.

"I'm actually just getting used to him to be honest," John chimed in, a little of a smile on his lips as well. Turning to the man, he held out his hand in which Lestrade took it with a firm shake, "Nice to meet you mate. Hopefully we can be friends."

"Yeah. That would be great," he responded lightly, already used to the doctor's kind personality.

"John..." I hinted, sparing glances to the bathroom down the hall. John took the hint and thanked Lestrade before taking my suit and walking briskly to get cleaned for probably once in a few days.

Once the door was shut, Lestrade patted me on the back. I stood rigid as he did so but relaxed after a minute. He barely took any notice.

"I'm proud of you, kid. You actually tried to find somebody who can fill in this empty place of yours. He seems nice enough, maybe he'll give you some good habits like cleaning. Where did you find him? You said he was an army doctor so did you kidnap him once he got off?"

I shook my head, a faint smile, "Actually no, I found him on the corner with a guitar in hand. He was playing a song actually that interested me."

Lestrade blinked, "You found him on the street? He seems so nice though."

"He is. He still has those formal roots in him that makes him stand out to most. He was recently let off his job and he had no money to go around. I figured I would take him in."

He shook his head, "You? Take in a random stranger off the streets? How uncharacteristic of you. Not that I'm complaining of course. I trust your judgment and if you think he is a good man, then I will go off that thought as well. Can't say the same for Anderson and Donovan though."

"I have little patience to what they think about me or who I happen to be associated with, Lestrade. You know this I'm sure."

"I know I know. But hear me out, you may be able to dismiss the criticism like swatting flies, but John isn't you. He's more..."

"Human?"

"Not what I was going to say. He just has a more free emotional personality then you. Yes he may be used to it from his time overseas and yes he may look like he is perfectly fine, but he isn't you. He will be affected by it, even if it looks otherwise."

I looked at Lestrade with a narrowing of my eyes, "Since when did you become my therapist in terms?"

A chuckle, "Since you came into the first case and since you opened that brilliant mind of yours to me, kid."

After that we idled around, cleaning up some of my mess while we awaited John to get out. It didn't take too long, maybe 15 minutes, for him to finish his routine. When he did come out, I was in the middle of placing my books on my book case. Upon turning around, I blinked at John.

I realized how big they might be when I gave the clothes to him, but now It's rather comical with how big they are to his body. He is in no way small, but compared to me, he might as well have been a teenager or a young adult straight out of Uni.

Lestrade laughed aloud and John rolled his eyes, lifting his arms to hopefully indicate help but only making it worse with how the cuffs of the suit hung around his hands like mittens.

"Here mate, let me help you with that," Lestrade spoke, still holding back laughter at the sight. I gave a light smile as well before letting it vanish.

"Ah, Lestrade, while you are helping John, can you inform me of the case?"

He was rolling up John's cuffs on his trousers, my trousers, when he responded, "Sure. She's a girl, probably 23. From what I saw around her flat, her name is Alice Ferguson. Her cause of death is officially being hanged."

"Officially?" John questioned as he lifted his other foot for the cuffs to be adjusted.

"Her body shows marks of abuse or torture. Her wrists and ankles have dark bruises from being tied to a chair I would guess. She was probably dying then from internal bleeding, according to Anderson anyways, before they decided enough was enough and hanged the poor girl."

"Any family?" I questioned, looking out my window.

"No. She has no family. Father and mother passed away when she left for Uni. She had a sister, but she died of pneumonia."

"Pneumonia shouldn't be enough to kill a young girl. Sicken her yes, but with enough medication and the correct dosage of rest, she should have been better. Unless-"

"-she had a weak immune system," I concluded, "Good John. Maybe you are proving useful! Anything else? Friends? Pets? Annoying neighbors even?"

"She had two friends."

"Had?" I turned around to look at Lestrade.

He was now working on the cuffs of the top, rolling the ends up so John's fingers could be visible, "Yeah. They were found dead as well in the victims bedroom. They were tortured as well before being shot in the head."

I noticed John wincing at the cruel death and sighed, "Okay. So then why am I needed per say. It sounds like another boring triple homicide case."

"Well, the main victim, Alice, left a note."

"Yes?"

"It was a hidden note for if she had died. Only for those who could deduct it, like you."

A smile grew on my face as I looked away and started pacing. By this time, John was completed in adjusting his suit and was placing his old loafers back on. Lestrade said his good byes and left, reminding me to be at the scene soon as possible.

After a few moments, I jumped in the air with glee, "Brilliant. A case, something new. Ah, this must be Christmas."

John rolled his eyes, "You would be excited about this."

"Well yes John. Do you expect anything else from me? Come now, I am the only Consulting Detective in the world, but I have to have my few moments of excitement. You may think it morbid and rather disgraceful that I can be so happy at this poor girls murder, but if you hadn't heard. She knew it was going to happen. She knew it was going to occur, her murder. She wrote a note, and not just an ordinary note, no, it had to be a special one or Lestrade wouldn't have come to me. What is she trying to tell?" John stared at my blankly and I stopped and eyed him with sincerity, "Oh I wonder what it is like in your brain. It must be so quaint and so dull. Come on John! The game is on and we must win it!"

With that I dashed down the stairs with a little hint of a bounce to my step that will no doubt go unnoticed by John.

I ran out the door and hailed a cab, holding the door open for John to go in before receding into the vehicle myself.

**?-Mystery POV-?**

I smirked as I eyed Sherlock leave his flat, glee in my eyes for an instant before dwindling down to a small fire.

He has a partner now. That was something I didn't expect, not that I am complaining! This will only make the game all the more interesting to watch and enjoy. If other lives are at stake, including a possible best friend if this progresses as splendidly as it had, then the game can intensify to a new level. A brand new, exciting level filled with angst, depression, and lastly, defeat. Fun stuff, definitely not boring stuff.

It was only a matter of time before Sherlock caught on to who was in the reigns of this plot, but by then it will be far too late to fully reprimand it. At that point, he will have to succumb to my calls like a pet dog, trained and trembling. Ah, I can't wait for that day to come. Of course my game will be over and the one opponent i found increasingly entertaining will be depleted of anything but his unsure mind, but I have to enjoy it while it lasts. Before I go after the bigger fish in the pond so to speak.

I giggled lightly, trailing a warm path from my fingertips onto the brick wall as I retreated back to the black vehicle awaiting me.

Sherlock Holmes. You have yet to realize that my game has only just begun.

And you, my dear, will definitely not win it.

* * *

_Ah, do I love mystery POV's . I love just writing depressing things to be honest, sad really, but they are the ones I relate to so it's just easier. Nonetheless, I can't wait to finish the next chapter for you lovelies._

_Aw poor John. He lost his guitar. Now how will he convey his beautiful voice (If you want to imagine his voice, I don't know think of Mumford and Sons or Ed Sheeran or something. I haven't decided much. _

_Hm... My sister got mad at me on the reference to season 2 episode 3 with the roof thing. I might have more references to that incident in here since it's been nagging at the back of my mind like a little Sherlock of my own deducting as to why I am putting it off. It's simple, I want to build plot and then tear it to shreds with feels! :D Brilliant really._

_Now, I will take my leave. I don't know when the next chapter will be up. Sophmore year is being a pain with Pre-Cal and Chemistry and all that nonsense. Thank God I can actually use my chemistry knowledge with Sherlock now. *sigh* Welp, that's it! I'll try to bring another chapter in at least a day or three._

_Ciao~ Review or critique._


	4. Chapter 4

_What is this? Could this be an update? I would say it is! 7000+ words in fact~ Told you I could do it._

_Now, with that absurd intro out of the way, I would like to apologize for the lateness of this chapter haha~ I normally would have updated this perhaps three days at most after the last, but I had school piling on my shoulders as well as my Valentine's Day one shot for you guys._

_Ugh... Valentine's Day... I hate that holiday. It's almost like Single Awareness Day haha~ I've had too many bad memories on that day. _

_But, since I accidentally started writing the next chapter before finishing this one, it should be up by Valentine's Day at latest as well. Two gifts in one day. It's going to be like Christmas, except I get nothing ;)_

_Enjoy the chapter! I shall try to update quicker this time~_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. _

* * *

**John**  
It didn't take me long to realize when we were near the crime scene as blue and red lights were reflecting off building windows and sirens could be heard blaring down the streets. Yellow "CAUTION" tape was strewn around the perimeter like a gate with police officers guarding it from curious eyes. Not many people were here yet, thank God, crowds are not necessarily my favorite aspect with scenes like this. The surroundings were fairly discreet, but it was obvious that the scenery wasn't the main attraction of this attention. It was the flat in which a young girl now rested with an unnatural death as her final moments.

I tried to think what it might have been like in her shoes. Lonely, not knowing whether she would live or not. Unsure of any possibilities. Looking for escape but only finding the murderer's glinting eyes. She would be unable to move her hands and legs, wrapped up in rope or some sort of string. Captive, tied up, a dog on chains. And worst of all, nobody to hear her call for help.

I shuddered. That would be awful for anybody, myself included.

"John." I turned to Sherlock who was eyeing me with curiosity and slight _slight_ concern before flashing back to its defensive coating. It was faint and quick, but it was there.

"Yes?"

"What are you thinking about?"

I rolled my eyes at the man and scoffed with a smile, "I'm sure you know it already! Why don't you tell me?" To be honest, I was actually attracted to the deductions. They were amazing, brilliant even. Absolutely extraordinary. Every little explanation was like listening to a story, and I suppose in a way it was. With the way his mind works, he can probably name off the life story of anybody I pointed to. A new tale each time his mouth opened. It made me look like a kid awaiting to open his gifts. I shouldn't be looking forward to his blunt accusations of actual fact, but they were more interesting than my dull life could ever bring. Of course, I wouldn't admit this to him yet. I have too much pride to say such a thing to him. He would let it go to his head.

"Well, since you asked," He started, observing my figure in his analyzing eyes, "Your hands are tapping quite timidly on your thigh meaning that you are nervous. It's erratic and not to a specific beat, so no you can't say that you were thinking of a song since you obviously weren't. I can see that you are biting your bottom lip every so often, that being uncertainty. You are unsure how these people will take to you, taking in mind of your background and how you appeared when I first found you. You are afraid of criticism, but will take it gratefully nonetheless. The way your eyes are distant further infers that you are more than likely over-thinking little tedious things that probably don't matter at this particular moment. Now, your brows are furrowed, frustration? Ah, perhaps you are sentimental to this and are angry at whomever killed the girl. You are human after all, quite the open book might I add."

"How can you not hold any sentiment, Sherlock?"

He was quiet for a moment, thinking, "Does caring and mourning over a lifeless body actually bring the person back to life? Do they return once the suspected murderer is behind bars? Will his punishment make her heart start up once more out of no where? Tell me John, what good is mourning over _someone you don't even know_ when you certainly have concluded that it won't bring them back. Dousing your mood only makes you miss the important things. The important things that actually matter to solve this case."

"Yes, but..."

"But?"

"She had no family, her friends are dead, and I would suspect that nobody really knows her besides those who see or work with her. Nobody is mourning her death. Nobody will come to her funeral, or even pay for one for that matter. She will die without a single tear shed on her short-lived life. Doesn't that bother you? At all?"

Sherlock sighed, his mask becoming slightly darker, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, John."

It was such a morbid reply that I remained speechless while eyeing the detective with a mixture of surprise and a sullen understanding. He said it like he was told the same thing, like he cared for somebody and it never helped him. It was an emotionless response that gave off indicators, but none that I could really connect. It was then that I realized that Sherlock doesn't hold much sympathy for the deceased and even less for the living. He may hold a tinge of discomfort or pity, but that was as far as it got with him. Sentiment was not in his agenda or in his make-up. He relied on masks and sarcastic, satirical replies.

With that, our conversation ceased. He stared out the window with increasing boredom and I stared out mine with slight concern. His methods of dealing with the newly deceased were different than most people. He was different than most people, original and the complete opposite of the men and women I grew up with. Just the way he brushed the girls death off like nothing happened is what got to me. I have been around people who have always cared for people, even those who have no relations to them, but now that I am back it seems that it's different. Nobody cares as much anymore, at least not this stoic, brooding man.

Then again, he didn't seem the man to show emotion. Quite the opposite actually. Even though I haven't been with him for even a day, I could tell he rarely held any ties with anybody. He was distant and resisted making any sort of contact with anybody or showing any weakness. He was like a soldier, like I was, in that sense, always on defense for the enemy. He was constantly prepared to place up his barriers and steel anything in his eyes that may reveal him. The thought reminded me vaguely of a song I wrote when I got back, one on my life as a soldier and as a doctor... Perhaps one day I'll sing in to him, if I stay that is. It would fit him quite well.

As I shifted my gaze over to the stilled figure, I noticed just how thin he way. He was a lanky man, probably rarely eats at all, but he doesn't seem to be having any symptoms of being malnourished or even fatigue. I sighed and looked away, mentally slapping my wrist for already self-diagnosing the man. I tried hard not to do it to people, glancing in their direction to see how healthy they were and if they were sick or not. I didn't want to do it anymore, but it's hard when you want to be a doctor.

Yet the memory of the time I did that in Afghanistan, the mission that got me sent home, was the day that I promised myself to never do it again. Some talents you should keep to yourself.

But obviously Sherlock didn't think the same. He loved to flaunt his brilliant assertions with confidence and nonchalance. He had an interesting life, one full of mysteries and constant surprises. I, however, have nothing of the sort. I didn't even know what Sherlock found so interesting in a "boring" man as I. Yes, I play guitar, and yes I suppose it is odd that I don't have some sort of funds to compensate to my service, but that's a whole another reason altogether. It isn't even enough motive to stop and offer me brunch as he did.

Sighing, I observe my fidgeting fingers, "I don't think I will ever understand Sherlock. He's just... so unique. I can't even find the words to describe his personality and how he works," I chuckled, "I always seem to find the weird ones though..."

The weird ones, the _special_ ones, the odd balls; they always found their way to me. I'm not saying I don't like it, since most are still my friends to this day, but it definitely stuck out when you were a lanky teen with a pink-haired girl and rainbow socks rather than the casual, pastel attire. Of course, it was a strange guy who introduced me to music in the first place. Mike Stamford. I heard he still lived here, but I knew visiting him right now was out of the question. Sherlock would never let me leave and I don't think I want to anyways. I don't hold the same thrill as the excited detective next to me, but I still held a small amount of mild interest for the case.

I felt my phone vibrate and pulled it out, noticing immediately that I got a text. It was a number that wasn't in my contacts, then again, I don't exactly have any contacts at the moment. Perhaps it was Clara, or Harriet and they got a new phone. It wouldn't be the first time they tried to contact me so they could help me out. Nevertheless, I denied every offer. I can make it out on my own. I did it in the war zone so I can sure as hell do it here as well.

I clicked the button to view the message and scrunched my eyebrows as well.

**-Unknown Number-**

**You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson... You miss it.**

**Who is this - JW**

My teeth clenched as I awaited the text back, that is, if I got one back. I don't even know the number but somebody does if he was able to contact me! Who was this person? He acknowledges my name and obviously knows about my services with the military. Nobody should know about it unless the person was...

I glanced at Sherlock with suspicion before noticing a name on my phone. My finger slipped apparently causing my to go to my contacts by accident. Sighing, I was about to exit out when I saw a certain title in one of the contact slots.

_The Only Consulting Detective_

Great. So that is what he was doing when he took me phone. He placed his bloody number in the bloke.

I didn't really bother getting mad at him. Knowing him, he thought it perfectly normal, although it's obvious to most "dull" people that it isn't. Well, I doubt yelling and scolding him will actually do any good considering he practically has a snide reply to almost everything.

"John?"

I turned to him, "Yes?"

"We are here." Oh. I hadn't realized that we stopped and blinked the thoughts out of my eyes. I can think of these later, at a calmer time when I will hopefully have my guitar back. That's what I did nowadays. It was my specific sort of therapy that didn't require me keeping a diary for every little thing that I did. The therapist wanted me to do that, to note everything that happened in my life, but until a few hours ago, I would have told her nothing ever happens to me. It was true then, but not so much now. Now I had a deducting detective whom seemed to love showing off anything he could of his talents. It was almost like a child trying to get the attention of his mother, just not as cute, more so annoying. I couldn't deny that it was absolutely marvelous though.

Once the cabbie stopped, Sherlock was once again running out and striding towards the neon yellow tape. It looked like he wanted to skip and I laughed at that. I could see him doing that, skipping to a crime scene. It would be profound and utterly ridiculous and embarrassing, but it was still entirely possible for him.

"God, who am I dealing with?" I mumbled as I followed the detective warily.

I had to admit though that even I had a small smile on my face despite myself.

**Sherlock**  
"Oh, so the freak has arrived. Why are you here?" Donovan sneered at me. She was trying to scare me away with her weak insults again, never really concluding that they don't affect me. I have grown up with such torment Sally so your petty words won't touch my already cold heart. Nonetheless, I didn't mind her. She was just another simpleton with an even simpler mind.

"I'm here to solve the case that your team can't seem to create a solution for on your own," I replied with a hint of ice in my voice, giving a little smile to the irritated woman.

She glared at me, obviously done with my tactics at this point. Pity, that didn't take long. She had a shorter fuse today it seems. That's fine. That's why I have John as my acquaintance. He was a great deal more bearable than Anderson and seems to match my liking to crime scenes, albeit he does show more emotion. It's one of the few flaws I have come to notice in him by this point. He is open, his eyes the doors to practically anything to my taking. Well, almost anything. His orbs still hold a little bit of secrecy when mentioning his soldier days, or I suppose his more darkened days. Of course the more he hides it, the more I'm going to have to guess and deduct until I reach its poor, shriveled core. A challenge was always treated seriously and figuring out John's past was quite the serious matter. Well, that is, if he lasts long enough.

Speaking of the doctor, I heard Donovan open her mouth, venom ready to poison anybody unfortunate of speaking to her.

"And who is this?" She turned to John who was shuffling slightly, unsure of whether to go under the tape or remain at his formal pose. He didn't know what to say and it obviously wasn't a sudden love at first sight since, for one, the concept is irrational and doesn't exist, and second, his pupils never dilated upon seeing her. Thus, he probably feared her for now. That makes perfect sense since she wasn't exactly giving the best first impression like I had when I met him. It didn't help that Donovan was being a little bit more... haughty than usual.

I eyed her up and down without her noticing. Hm.. ah, trouble in paradise it seemed. Her hands looked reddened, fingers twitching ever so slightly, she slapped someone, probably Anderson judging from how I saw him rub his cheek every so often on the same space her hand would have hit. So he did something wrong, of course he did. He was Anderson. Nonetheless, it was he who did the wrong doing otherwise it might have been Donovan with perhaps some bruises the size of the pads on ones fingers. She is completely fine physically, well, almost. Eyes were slightly flushed, she cried before she came to the scene. Arguments and not the easy, ludicrous ones. They were inflictive, something close to home. Hands shaking and the fact that her neck constricted every so often from glancing at Anderson, it might have been bad enough to cause a break up between the two. How awful. They both fit together so well in terms of dull, boring minds and even worse personalities. What a shame. Well, I suppose it is nice he cut it off before his wife found out. That would have been tedious and quite annoying.

"This is Dr. Watson. He's my..."

"Colleague," John finished, seemingly claiming the courage he lacked before. He held out his hand as a kind gesture to the woman who looked like she wanted to just ignore him. John looked confused for a second before retrieving his hand and letting it fall to his side. Any emotion he held after that was carefully hidden from my watching eyes, but I could tell he was a little irritated at the woman. His hands were in fists, clenching before being undone once more. His mouth was in a thin line, emphasizing how much he would rather just wait back at the flat than deal with her. Hm... perhaps we do have something in common, our similar dislike in the woman close to us.

But right now I really don't have time to worry about how quaint Donovan was being. A murder is upstairs, a triple homicide at that, and my mind was racing to digest the evidence.

Raising the tape for John, I awaited him to go under. He looked a little unsure as he looked at me and Donovan.

"Perhaps I should just stay behind-" he started, moving a step backward.

I rolled my eyes, "Come now John. I don't have all day to wait for your confidence to spur you into coming under this stingy, useless tape. A young girl is murdered and I'm the only one in this lot that can say why."

"Then why should I come?" He wasn't glaring at me, but his eyebrow twitched slightly so it was agitation.

I smirked, "Because I enjoy the second opinion."

He scoffed as he watched me speak, "Ha. Sure you do."

"I do!" I insisted, once again motioning him under the tape. With one lasting look, he finally sighed and went under the tape. Letting it drop, I walked away from the distasteful annoyance and the tape just as she called, "The freak is here!"

That, of course, was the cue for Anderson to arrive. I was hoping that he might have tripped down the stairs and left to check a sprained ankle of sorts, but I suppose not all hopes can be answered.

He was wearing those fruitless green scrubs that made his face all the more prominent. I wouldn't have minded him if he wasn't so dull, boring, and utterly impossible to deal with when it comes to murders. Every little statement he would give, albeit absurd, would be completely wrong and useless in the case. The way his mind revolves around little useless things like crime scene tampering and little facts here and there was directly pointed to make me want to shut him out of the room, in which, I would normally do. Nonetheless, he was briskly walking to me now with the intentions of idiocy on his features. Joy.

"Why are you here?" he spoke deliberately. I could already feel the IQ of the yard decreasing by 1 percent.

"Really Anderson? Is that all your little mind can conjure when I walk up? Perhaps you and Donovan are a better couple than I thought in terms of lacking any imaginative responses."

He paled slight, "Sally and I are not-"

"Yes you are. Now, I'm going to be entering the crime scene now. I hope your terrible diagnostic team didn't mess with the body."

I heard him grumble as I walked up the steps into a flat, obviously roped off from anybody who wanted a closer look. Of course, that never includes me.

"Sherlock!" I turned to see Lestrade walking up, green scrubs on as well.

I nodded in acknowledgment.

"Lestrade," I heard John greet from behind me as he shook the DI's hand firmly, "Nice seeing you again."

"And you Dr. Watson," he turned to me once more, "Now, you have roughly 8 minutes before you two have to be gone. I am-"

"-Breaking so many procedures with me being here. Yes, I know Lestrade. You don't need to chide me of this every time."

He chuckled, "You're right, I don't. Doesn't stop me from doing so anyways."

I was going to walk into the scene when he reached an arm out and stopped me. Annoyance on my face I turned to him.

"I don't mind if you are here, we need you, but why is Dr. Watson here? No offense, mate."

"None taken, "John replied and I rolled my eyes, "He's here to help diagnose the body."

"Isn't that what Anderson is for?"

I glared at him, "I can't work with him. His thinking interrupts my deductions. As for his team, they are merely a bunch of confused adults just holding diagnosing tools. They don't work well with me and I them."

"But, John?"

"He is more tolerant of me. He's still standing here, yes?"

Lestrade laughed and shook his head, "Right. Before you go in though doctor, I need you to put on this scrubs so you don't contaminate anything, surely you understand."

John nodded, "Yes, but what of Sherlock."

I could feel a faint glare on my back as I crossed into the room to observe the scene, "I could never get him into one. He says they restrict his mind palace or whatever that place is."

"Oh," John say as he followed my example.

I observed the room as John caught up with me, measuring every little indention in its crevices. The crime scene was surprisingly clean despite what I have heard from Lestrade, but there were still other rooms in this flat. A bathroom and a bedroom. Nonetheless, I can check those after I observe the main attraction, that being Ms. Alice Ferguson.

I found her on the ground and gently crouched next to the corpse. John followed suit and got on his knees on the other side of her, watching me.

Her eyes were open, so it was somebody who didn't care for her. They didn't know her and could care less as to her well being. Her face held forming bruises on her left cheek along with a few grazes. She was slapped on the cheek quite hard so resistance was her attribute through all of this. She refused to give information to the murderers of choice, probably because they were the people she had information about and she knew they would kill her anyways. Stupid girl, but bravery is a form of idiocy I suppose.

Other than a cracked lip and bed head, her face was otherwise clear. Wait, no it wasn't. Traces of a white substance were sprinkled around her lips, but I couldn't identify without further testing it back at the lab. I used a little petri dish I had on me and gently nudged it under some of the grains, making sure enough was in it for testing later. After doing so, I shoved it in my inner pocket and continued the observation. Her body was slightly different. Both wrists and ankles were darkly bruised with broken skin where she tried to get free. A faint white powder was on her wrists and chest area as well, being mostly concentrated on her chin and lips. Her ankles were clean of the grains, only marked from the bonds in which she was kept. Judging by the patterned indentions, it was the same rope now around her neck. The chair she stood on was also the seat she was attached to, judging by the small flecks of white around the arms of the furniture piece.

Any other injuries were obvious to even Anderson as to where they appeared from. He could not, however, see the other aspects. She had no boyfriend... no, girlfriend. Although this is more of a guess, as much as it annoyed me, she more than likely preferred the same sex as herself judging by her personality and tastes. She's alone, or likes to be, due to her condition probably. Albinism. She has brown eyes, but they are starting to affect her eyes and bringing out the iridescent red common in the skin condition. The tan she holds is false as well as her hair, falsely died a brown like her eyes. She's obviously one to hate going out, more reserved, but she is observant judging by the notes she has scattered around over little meticulous things of uselessness.

Ah, this isn't even her flat. This was one of her friends. Close to the chair was an overnight bag with a tag on it, her name visible with neat scrawl. It looked doused by rain, though no rain was even close to London at this time so it was out of town. She doesn't have a lot of money according to her cheap, hand-me-down clothing and call-only phone. She drove here from where she actually lived, that being Brighton, England. Her tag also showed this and her number and email.

"Well?" I looked up when I heard Lestrade call for my attention. I would have ignored him but I already had gathered all I could.

"She was murdered, as you have stated, but the hanging came last. She was strapped to the chair for questioning on not what she knew, rather what she saw and noticed. The murderer didn't know her and killed her in cold blood after he discovered that he couldn't get anything out of her."

"He? The murderer was a male?"

I rolled my eyes, "Do keep up. Yes it was a male. Even by her slim standards, a female would have no way to actually preform all of the abilities done here. Now, they tried to poison her, but it didn't work, mixed up the contraption in some way. She was tortured before being killed the way she did."

"That much is obvious," Anderson spoke and I turned to glare at him. Motioning at John, he looked at me and understood immediately what to do. Walking over to the front door, he shut it in Anderson's face and I almost smiled at the look he got. Satisfactory.

"This isn't her flat. It is somebody she knows, the girl friend of hers more than likely. She only came here for a visit, planning to leave tomorrow. Of course, that didn't go as planned. She was murdered plain and simple. Nothing more than an obvious triple homicide. What did you call me here for Lestrade?"

"This." With that, he turned on a lamp beside me, purposely directed at the wall. As he flipped the switch, a bright purple glow bounced off towards the white-washed wall, exposing everything. It was a black-light.

But that wasn't what intrigued me, no, it was what was on the wall. Words, verses of a poem I know quite well. It wasn't messy scrawl, but it wasn't neat. She tried to make it readable, but she didn't have the time to make it in a type-written dexterity.

Standing, John and I enclosed on the words, avoiding direct blockage of the light passing through.

"What-?" John started, obviously miffed.

"Shush John," I mumbled absently, mentally copying and pasting the text in a room of my mind palace for further deductions.

_Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling;_

_By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore;_

_'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, 'I said, 'are sure no craven;_

_Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore;_

_Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'_

_Quote the raven, 'Nevermore'._

At the bottom was a cursive-written signature, "_Alice Ferguson._"

Scrunching my brows, I turned to look at Lestrade, "How did your team come up with this? I respect you with slightly more intelligence than the average human, but I can't say the same for the rest of them."

He chuckled, "Actually, Anderson found it," I raised my brow, "Okay, actually he kind of accidentally flipped on the switch when he tripped over the chair..."

John chuckled next to me and I smiled slightly. Of course.

"John, did you notice the raven statue when you walked in?" I spoke, looking over at the grinning man.

He tilted his head before nodding, "Yeah, it was over by the Chinese vases on the shelf next to the front door. Why?"

I stood, patting down my coat, "Oh nothing, an experiment actually. Could you go stand by the statue?"

John did as asked and raised an eyebrow at me, motioning as to what I could possibly be thinking. Oh John, I envy your little spacious mind. It must be wonderful not being me.

"Okay, now, which way is the raven directed from your point of view, you being north in this instance."

He eyed the angle and spoke decisively, "It is directed exactly North East from where I stand. Almost an exact 45 degrees I'd say."

Nodding, I eyed the vision of the Raven to a book case. It was alphabetically arranged with various books that I could really care less of at the moment. The point of view was on the second shelf of the case and on the evergreen book in the middle. I inched towards to book and pulled it out, noticing immediately how light it was despite its deceiving thickness. It should have weighed more than it was. Odd... and intriguing.

I opened the book and smiled. Clever girl.

The book was hollowed out so that the middle was cleared and the opposite cover of the book was glued to the edges of the pages. It was a great place for hiding materials and that was exactly what it was doing.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John spoke as he neared me. Lestrade also strode over, interested in my find.

Reaching into the book, I fished out the folded pieces of paper, all addressed to "Whomever it may concern."

"Letters? Why would there be letters in a blasted book?" Lestrade spoke, surprised by my find.

"It's obvious Lestrade is it not? Come now, the poem! It was written in lemon juice, one of the many substances that glow under a UV light of sorts. It is still quite vibrant under the light, meaning it has been written recently, but that is besides the point. Her friend, or rather she since she bought the raven due to the lack of dust compared to the other objects, knew she was going to die and used the poem as a hint that only those well-versed and impeccably perceptive can understand, or myself. The raven at the end is the raven she placed where John was standing. The perspective at which it was placed made it look as if it was looking exactly at this book titled 'Nevermore' like the raven states in the famous poem. She was clever and smart despite the result."

John was wide-eyed in front of me, "That... was amazing."

I rolled my eyes, "You don't need to say it every time. Such thoughts can be kept to yourself."

He reddened slightly, embarrassed, before rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, "Sorry. I'll shut up."

I blinked, a little taken aback as to how calmly he took that. Normally people would be swearing me out by this point, but John accepted it quickly, "No. It's... alright."

Lestrade cleared his throat and I shook my head, pulling out the letters, "They were all written by her. The hand writing is the exact same as the one written in the poem and the tag on her case. They are dated variously and titled. Notes it looks like. The first seems to be a sort of introduction to the rest of the contents. She was being more sketchy and messier in the later letters, probably worried for her safety at this point."

"Well? What do they say," Lestrade spoke.

"I thought I only had 8 minutes," I reminded with a smirk.

He grunted and thought it over, "I'll let you read the letters then you can observe the other two body's and be out of here as soon as possible. Anderson and Donovan won't be happy, but they never are when it comes to you."

"The other body's are so boring though, far less interesting than this girl. They were used as a motive for information that failed despite her relations to them, so a fight between the three broke out previous to the murder to lessen the affect on her. They were just there to spite her. Send them to Molly's if you wish and I can do further finalization there. Now, for the letters."

The dates were from the recent Christmas to just three days ago.

The first letter was the lengthy one, a descriptive introduction as stated before_:_

_Hello to whomever is viewing this. If you are, by chance, seeing this around my dead body, it must mean I have been murdered. I have expected this you see, but nonetheless, don't mourn for me. I have no family and even fewer friends who care for me, thus making this slight difficult, no? Despite the fact that I may be lifeless now, find my murderer. He has come for me due to a secret I accidentally viewed without authorization. The same secret I have enclosed in these assorted letters. I hope the clues I leave you will ensure a enclosed case, though the world has changed drastically and for all I know, it may run cold like many others. Now, I hope this is in the right hands when I say this. Please, stop the man, and the people alongside him, whom have murdered me so. At that point, I will be fully at peace and will thank you greatly. Sincerely, Alice._

The next were minor notes:

_1. Jim Moriarty - Friend or foe? Obviously a boss of some sort, probably bad. Keep distance and keep an eye on the group of his. Curious how this might end._

_2. Location - I believe I know where he is now. From what I have heard, he plans to pay this man to kill people. Of course, it seems the man was tricked, but nonetheless, it isn't my business. Though, it seems the tricked man was doing it for good intentions considering he was dying and wanted money to help his kids along. A good man doing horrible deeds. I wonder if I should report this? Probably not. Don't want to risk getting caught, though I have a sinking feeling he knows I'm already here and spying on him. God, do I hope he doesn't know. I fear the worst._

_3. A letter - I've recently received a letter from a man with the initials J.M.. This is probably Jim Moriarty. He says the raven should have refrained speaking nevermore when it had the chance to do so. He does have a way with words, but I know underneath that my death is soon. I know there is no escape, but I might as well gather as much information as possible before I die. I want to try to help the others under his thumb and perhaps somewhere out there, there is somebody who can do that for me._

_4. Other people - I keep hearing several names over and over again from J.M.. That's my reference for him since I don't have enough time to write right now. He has recently moved to a new spot, one that took me a few clues of looking. I hope he refrains from killing me, but I can tell he is ruthless, despite his happy nature around his hit man "Sebby". I want to think that's a nickname for Sebastian, but one can't be too sure. I should keep an eye on him since he is more than likely going to be the man that will be my final sights._

_5. A final note - The J.M. has recently sent me another note. It is not a warning, but a guarantee that my death will be tonight. I don't fear it to be honest. I like living, but I have nothing to live for right now. Family is gone, friends soon following their path. Perhaps this is my destiny; to sacrifice myself for the likes of others. Nevertheless, I will write more than usual since by tomorrow, my body will probably be found. Jim Moriarty is a man to be careful around. He deducts as keenly as an owl at night trying to spot a mouse, but he always finds it. He will find your weakness and won't hesitate to take it away from you. I was just lucky not to have one when he caught me. When you do finally see him, beware. He has many guises and can trick you into thinking he's innocent. He isn't. Far from it in fact. I've caught him killing a few men and he seems to enjoy it. He's truly a psychopath. I know I will not be his final victim, probably just a dot in his long list of somebodies and nobodies, but you, whomever finds this, can surely stop him. He has no weakness though. You must kill him to end him. No talking to him to get through to his shriveled heart. He's ruthless and will abide to nothing to see you burn. I know this in fact._

_6. A memento - A final thought that has appeared to me just now. This will be my official last note considering the man will be here in half an hour as promised. They prefer being punctual despite the blood-driven murderers they are. Nonetheless, he always chanted one name over and over. It was like an endless cycle, never ending. He appears to want to kill this man, or at least play with his head a little. I fear he knows too much of the man and that the man knows nothing of him. I do remember the name though. Maybe you can save and protect the man from the same fate as myself. The name will be etched into my memory till my final death. It's odd, but the name he recited was "Sherlock Holmes". Goodbye reader and I hope you receive this and not the opposition._

I dropped the letters back into the book, "Aside from the grammatical errors in these, she was clearly well-educated in an uprising of sorts it appears."

John scoffed, "Of course. A girl leaves notes to help us solve her murder and all you can think of is grammatical errors? How despicable but I'm not even going to scold you. I suppose from that you can tell what went through her head?"

"Of course," I spoke, "She was in a rush for all of these obviously. Anybody with half a brain, or none, can tell that much. She wasn't afraid of her death since she didn't really have a life, which was nice since reading a sob story would have been rather unbearable to say the least. Now, the clues she did leave us are helpful. It seems this Jim Moriarty character knows more of myself than I know of him as the girl stated. Perhaps Mycroft knows something. He does have his uses."

I placed the book in the crook of my arm and made my way to the exit, a smile on my lips for the interesting case.

"H-Hey! That is evidence you know," Lestrade stammered though it was obvious that he wasn't going to try to take the thing away from my grasp.

"I will return it to your team's incapable hands soon enough, after I have discovered the murderer. Until then, I will take leave with this."

Lestrade shook his head as I walked down the stairs and out of the flat. Ignoring the petty remarks of Anderson and Donovan, I hail a cab.

"So what now?"

I turned to John as I heard a cab stop in front of me. Opening the door for him, I awaited John to step in before shutting it and returning to my side and stepping in, "Whatever could you mean?"

"You didn't ask for my opinion at all during the entire time we were in that flat, but you obviously have an intention of going somewhere. So what am I here for actually?"

I pursed my lips, "I didn't ask for your opinion there since I didn't want Anderson to give some stupid remark to infect your wording, but I would love to hear your deduction at this moment I suppose."

John rolled his eyes and smiled a little despite himself, "Her death was not hanging as you said. It wasn't even anything in relation to it. Her death was actually caused by potent blunt force trauma in the back of her head," I blinked, going through my index to see if I remembered such. I didn't of course and stared at John with annoyed confusion.

"From my point of view, Sherlock, the blood was pooling. It was utterly clean from your side so that is why you didn't see it. Mistakes are made and gone unnoticed by some so shut it and let me finish. You were curious of my opinion correct? Oh, but yes. Blunt force trauma killed her along with some traumatic internal bleeding. The hanging was only an after-effect to make it look like she killed herself I think," he breathed and looked at me with curiosity, "So how did I do?"

I thought it over, "Quite well, John, quite well. You missed some of the major pointers, but you did well in discovering what you were supposed to see."

I saw John shake his head and look out the window, obviously a little done with talking to me, "So where are we going now? This isn't the route back to Baker Street."

"No it isn't. We are going to a... colleague of mine. She is one of the few people who willingly gives me body parts for my experiments," I commented brightly.

"Oh, that's nice- wait what? You preform experiments with dead body parts and of dead human beings at that?!" John sputtered, glaring at me with accusations of my sanity again. I sighed. It may take him a little longer than expected to get used to my antics.

"Yes John, do keep up. If we are going to be flat mates, we should no the worst of each other, correct?"

* * *

_And that's all it wrote! I actually had too much fun writing the murder. I was stuck between mixing lemon juice and water or if I should try highlighter and water. Both work. I actually got up at this time (midnight) grabbed lemon juice and a highlighter and water and did the concoctions to see which worked best with my black light. The highlighter was good, but it ran to readily so I decided the lemon juice. My sister eyed me like I was crazy for writing the poem on my wall. It's still there haha~_

_Oh, but yes, I hope you enjoyed it. So many errors are in this since I was trying to get it out today. Look forward for Valentine's day guys for two little chapters. I already have planned the next chapter to be similar to a hurt/comfort one *sigh* so it will be of utter sadness, but the other one should lift your spirits some. _

_Critique and review~_

_Ciao~_


	5. Chapter 5

_Let me start this off by saying how I'm sorry about the lateness of this. I aimed to have two chapters for this fanfic done by yesterday and, obviously, that was not achieved. Now, I will mention that the sixth chapter is actually near done. I just have to reread it once more to make sure I am okay with it. _

_I also want to say thank you to all of you who followed/favorited/reviewed this fanfiction! That itself drives me to write faster! It also makes my day and causes me to have ideas run through my head like a mad man...er, woman. _

_This will only have one person's POV due to the fact that it seemed like I should dedicate one little chapter to him. It also has a back story which explains a little of what he went through out of the MANY things he did. (I also was afraid to do another Sherlock POV at the moment since I need to read a little on him to make sure I get it right as the story goes on. No OOC here if I can help it!)_

_Without further ado, I will leave you be. Enjoy the story! :) This is more of a filler chapter than anything so don't expect too much plot._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I do, however, own Arthur that makes an appearance later on. I also do not own the song!_

* * *

**John**

I tried to think of the colleague Sherlock could have been talking about as we arrived at the mortuary. Sherlock described her with distinct remarks, but nothing to gather a picture. He probably didn't pay her any attention knowing how he gets with cases from what I could gather.

He treated each case as if it was his obsession. Anything else was practically nothing to him besides the case at hand. If somebody were to come to him for help, they would be pleased to know that he actually assesses the entire situation before his own health. This by itself annoyed me as a doctor, and maybe a friend though that one is a possibility. I tried to get him to nurture the thought of eating, even some chips at a quick-food joint, but he wouldn't budge, ignoring my prodding with the stubbornness of a mule. He only responded with the thought being absurd to the case and therefore irrelevant. Of course after a few more minutes of attempting the same motive, I gave up with a sigh.

So, this was consultant detective Sherlock. Not sure what to think of it to be honest. Regular Sherlock was enough to deal with with his quick reflexes and his indecisive, brilliant mind, but this was different. His deductions, albeit utterly fascinating to hear, were more subjective and much more accusatory to the directed person. He would rush at the littlest of leads despite how late it could be or if anybody who was accompanying him at the time was following him. A stake-out was nothing for him. Chasing a criminal through the alleys? Not at all weird in the slightest. He would probably actually even break into places just to prove his theories right the git.

I swear, he was going to be the death of me, or at least the cause of my being in jail at 3 in the morning if this continues.

I wasn't even his flat mate for even a week and he was already having me tag along with him everywhere. I rarely had enough to time to compose anything with how he wanted me to remember little knick-knacks here and there for later usage. I hope he knows that I don't have some amazing, organized, photographic memory as himself. I was only human after all. Him? I honestly haven't _deducted_ if he even counted as that. Perhaps he was a robot or some fictional creature from those absurd teen-fiction novels nowadays. I wouldn't be surprised.

In more ways then one, he reminded me of this man I was friends...no, that was too fond, accomplices of. If I was correct, he had a name so odd that I just gave him a nickname of my own.

His name was, or my nickname for him was, Arthur. A bloke so stoic and distant that I was counted as lucky to know him like I did.

The last time I saw him, it must have been the night before I met Sherlock. By then it had been 2 weeks that we were roaming together.

_"So," I started as I struggled_ _with_ _the cans I held in the bag, "What_ _now?"_

_Arthur was looking around, his_ _chestnut_ _colored hair assorted and swaying in the harsh, cold winds. His green eyes were flashing to_ _every_ _corner,_ _though_ _I suppose I could understand why. In this part of the city, wanderers_ _weren't_ _uncommon and whenever we did happen upon them,_ _they_ _were hostile. I would be able to fend them off for the most part, but sometimes we lost something or got a broken arm. Of course, I would be able to aid it, if I could, being a doctor and all. Perhaps that's why I was kept, protection._

_Nevertheless, I was not complaining. The first four months were horrible until I met him and even if he was the most antisocial bloke I ever met in my bloody life, he did share any food or items he had. In more ways than one, he was a savior from the cold and_ _loneliness_ _of the streets._

_"We should find shelter," he murmured softly, hands clenching around the stick in his palms. Well, I suppose_ stick _was more of an understatement. It was more like a rusting lead pipe that provided most of the_ _protection_ _and_ _leverage_ _we needed._

_I nodded. Yes,_ _shelter_ _would be wonderful but we_ _don't_ _have money to get a_ _hotel_ _room like we were able to earlier. This time, the spot I chose for my guitar_ _wasn't_ _a good spot and we only earned enough money for food. It was more than the week before altogether, but it still_ _wasn't_ _enough to live comfortably._

_Snow began to pile in little mounds around us, covering the pavement in white. We only have perhaps an hour or two before we would have to_ _resort_ _to_ _body heat. We need to find a building,_ _preferably_ _empty so we_ _don't_ _fight over territory with the others. Ugh, I hated this life, but I had no money. I was broke and my family practically disowned me as there son for what I did. The only true_ family _I had left was Harry, but I_ _didn't_ _want to bother her, to make her sad. Especially since I looked like mother too much so she would only see the sickness and_ _malnourished_ _figure of mine as a prominent reflection of mum's last few days._

_I sighed. I can_ _live_ _without bothering her if I can help it. I was already a troublesome prat to the rest of my family so if I so much as_ spoke _to her,_ _they_ _might_ _just_ _disown her as well and I know Harry. She_ _wouldn't_ _last long before running back to the bottle. I mean, she already has..._

_I was still good though. No matter how horrible the situation was, I would place a facade for the others. I_ _didn't_ _have to do that for Arthur though. I_ _didn't_ _ask him_ _about_ _his past so he_ _didn't_ _ask about mine. It was a small,_ _unsaid_ _mutual agreement between us._

_All of a sudden I saw Arthur lurch forward, falling into the snow. He was retching everything he ate the_ _night_ _before, which_ _wasn't_ _much. A little concerned, I patted his back awkwardly to_ _help_ _him through. After maybe a minute or so, he stopped_ _and spat_ _out what was in his mouth. He was chuckling though it was_ _humorlessly_ _morbid._

_"I thought I'd last longer," he spoke with a annoyed gleam in his eye._

_"What do you-" I stopped when I saw what he vomited. It was food, yes, disgusting and utterly unappealing, but mixed in was blood. Actually, most of the contents was blood. This..._ _This_ _wasn't_ _good._

_"I... are you sick?" I mumbled, confused and slightly scared for the man next to me._

_Arthur shrugged and took off the light sweater he_ _was_ _wearing,_ _throwing_ _it aside. It was covered in the contents he spewed up earlier. Along the side of his mouth, a_ _faint_ _trickle of red was seeping down._

_I went into doctor mode from there on. Turning his body to face me, I reached out and placed my hand against his forehead. It was burning hot and I immediately pulled my hand away and went to his coat. I began ripping the clean parts to put snow in when Arthur came behind me. With an unsteady hand, he placed it on my shoulder, a low rumble coming from his chest as he spoke._

_"John. Stop."_

_I rotated to face him again, "What other symptoms do you have?"_

_He shook his head, "John-"_

_I enforced the words carefully, "What. Other. Symptoms." I was meaning every word. I was a doctor and doctors save lives. That is what they do, no matter the consequences on their part. Right now, Arthur's life was obviously in danger considering the spout of blood he exhaled just minutes ago._

_He sighed, "I already know what it is, John, but I will humor you I suppose. It's always nice to have the assertion from a doctor. Nothing too bad though, to be honest. Cough. Chills. Fever. Sweating at night."_

_I thought it over and came to one of the few diseases that I knew with those symptoms, but I needed more information to deduct further, "How long has the cough lasted?"_

_"Maybe a month."_

_I thought it over and observed his form upon physical examination, "You were coughing up sputum, phlegm from deep inside the lungs, and you have lost weight in the time I have been with you. You must have lost perhaps 2 or 3 stones from the first day I saw you. Loss of appetite. You didn't even want to eat yesterday, but I made you. You've been getting weaker as well considering how I have to carry most of the weight now instead of a half-and-half."_

_I paled when I came to a conclusion, "Do you have any pain in your chest? If so, how long?"_

_Arthur kicked the snow beneath him, a nonchalant look on his face, "John. Face it. I have tuberculosis."_

_"B-But, you looked so well-"_

_"I've had it since I got out of high school, roughly six years now. I didn't catch it quick enough so I knew it was terminal," he scoffed lightly and looked up at me, full acceptance in his eyes, "I knew I was going to die John. I knew it from the day I met you so I figured I'd do some good before I die and help you out."_

_"I've been around you for awhile now. I'm sure 2 weeks is close enough for me to be infected. I'm not sick with it though. So... I have latent tuberculosis... Anything could trigger it..." I spoke sullenly, realizing the danger of this and the effects that will occur soon enough._

_"Why do you think I've been avoiding you John, avoiding people in general? It wasn't because I was a stoic imbecile that hated to go out, no, it was because I didn't want others to get sick. Of course, I knew that wouldn't stop you, so I've been conjuring other ways to help you."_

_I looked up at him,"Other... ways?"_

_He smirked and took out a bag from a hidden pocket in his coat. It was made of leather, though it was dirtied from all the various substances in alleyways and abandoned flats. It must have been the size of a common coin pouch, but it was bulging. _

_"I've been saving money for you, John," Arthur said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world._

_"Why?" I heard myself say though I was far away. My mouth was dry and unable to utter anything else. The whole point of me being on the streets was so that nobody would be bothered and here was Arthur, a man who was_ dying _and he has been saving bloody coins for me to survive instead of trying to help him. _

_"Because you didn't leave me like the others," he stated simply, handing me the pouch, "You never asked for more than you could chew. You never stole from me. You didn't attack defenseless innocent people for being in a overpowering area. You were a good man and even though I was probably the worst choice for you to team up with, you still stuck with me. For that, I'm grateful."_

_"It is what any man would do," I interjected, trying to find reason in this._

_"No. It isn't and you know that," he deadpanned. He started having a coughing fit afterward, swinging his head to the side to cough whatever into the crook of his elbow. I patted his back to help calm the irritation, but even so it took more than five minutes and a lot of swearing on his part. When he finally did turn back to me, more red was painted on his face as well as where his mouth was pointed in his elbow. He held a grimace that shouted how much pain he was in._

_"Arthur-" I began._

_"John," he interrupted, looking me in the eye with a pleading look, "will you do something for me? Just one thing."_

_I hesitated before nodding._

_"You know that guitar you always carry on your back? The one that we have been using the entire time to earn money?" I nodded again and he continued, "I know I'm going to die soon. Maybe tonight while I am sleeping, but will you play something for me? As a friendly farewell, of course."_

_I looked him in the eye, those green eyes. He was only 24 years old, almost 25. He was far too young to die of a disease like this, a disease so treatable had he known sooner._

_"Yes."_

_He sighed and smiled,"Good," he pulled out a syringe from his pocket and tossed it in the air before catching it again, "Right, let's find a place to rest."_

_He was so okay with this. He was accepting that his final breaths were coming to an end yet he still held his head high because he wasn't going to let that get to him. I wished I was like that. I wish I could just let things pass me by in a blink of an eye, but I couldn't. I hold grudges, dark shadows that follow my every step._

_"What is that anyways?" I asked him, pointing at the syringe._

_"__Seconal. I've read from a few books that taking enough of this with water at room temperature could cause an overdose."_

_"Why would you want to overdose?! Why would you want to die so quickly?" I sputtered, surprised by his logic._

_"Why? Really, John? Think it over. I am_ dying _of a painful disease. My final moments with this disease will be the most excruciating pain in my life. Now, I would go through that, but I'm a coward, and a weak one at that. I can't do it. Seconal, a insomnia aid, is a alternative. You know this. I've read how the overdose is supposed to go, and it's peaceful. It's quiet and it's like dying of hypothermia. You fall asleep and then your heart just... stops."_

_"Your breathing slows down while you're in a sleeping state... You get light-headed as well as blurring vision... For the first ten minutes, it's like you're sleeping. Those around you will go on like you passed out... Then, you slip into a coma, your pulse becoming more faint as time goes on... After the last 20 minutes pass, you... your heart ceases to beat like you said. I've heard about it, but I have never seen it."_

_He shook his head, stopping as he found a building. It was small, right in between two larger buildings. When we stepped inside, a couch was to the far corner as well as a end table and coffee table. Besides the scarce furniture, it was utterly empty. It must have been abandoned for maybe months now, the owner not caring for such a place. It was warm, just a little bit, and held a sense of comfort in its walls. I could tell this was where we were going to stay and where Arthur was going to die. _

_"I had an older sister that did it. I was with her. Now, it's my turn except I'm not using it because I'm depressed. I'm using it because it's... it's the less painful way out."_

_I looked at Arthur as he extended his body along the couch. He was getting into a relaxing state of mind, preparing for the end._

_I myself sat on the coffee table, pulling out my guitar and absently plucking the strings._

_"I hate this stupid guitar sometimes," I grumbled, "Every person I play it for eventually dies of a horrible, incurable disease..."_

_Arthur patted my arm before bringing it back to his chest as he pulled out the syringe again. I watched as he placed the needle into his arm and pressed the plunger at the end, all the liquid going into his arm. Almost immediately, I noticed his body become lanky and loose._

_"So... what did you want me to play?"_

_He thought it over, furrowing his brows, "Improvise. Think of something for right now."_

_"I'm not exactly the best at that, but I'll try," I spoke softly, going through my mental juke box to pick a song. At last, one hit me and I began to start its tune._

_"And the blood will dry_

_Underneath my nails,_

_And the wind will rise up_

_To fill my sails._

_So you can doubt,_

_And you can hate,_

_But I know, no matter what it takes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home,_

_Tell the world that I'm coming home._

_Let the rain, wash away_

_All the pain of yesterday._

_I know my kingdom awaits_

_And they've forgiven my mistakes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home,_

_Tell the world that I'm coming..._

_Still far away_

_From where I belong,_

_But it's always darkest_

_Before the dawn._

_So you can doubt,_

_And you can hate,_

_But I know, no matter what it takes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home._

_Tell the world that I'm coming home._

_Let the rain, wash away_

_All the pain of yesterday._

_I know my kingdom awaits,_

_And they've forgiven my mistakes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home._

_Tell the world that I'm coming..._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home,_

_Tell the world that I'm coming home._

_Let the rain, wash away_

_All the pain of yesterday._

_I know my kingdom awaits_

_And they've forgiven my mistakes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home,_

_Tell the world that I'm coming... home."_

_By the time the song ended, Arthur was unresponsive, eyes closed and breathing barely lifting his chest. Moving my fingers to his wrist, I felt my shoulders sag. It was faint, so faint in fact that I thought he was already gone for a moment. No, he was still here. The song should have lasted perhaps 2 or 3 minutes, but I made it longer so he would hear it in his sleep. Now, I was certain he was in the coma stage of the overdose. It was only a matter of time until his pulse stopped altogether._

_Sighing, I stood and packed my guitar in it's case. I went and picked up the cans I left on the ground when we came in and set it near the case as well as the coin pouch. I was preparing to leave again because after Arthur was... no longer here, I knew I wouldn't be able to stay. The smell would be awful, but that wasn't why. I could live with the smell, blimey, I had_ lived _with the smell. I was a military man. I've smelled and scene worse, but most of the time it was the occasional stranger. Yes, it was like a sharp pang to the chest being a doctor and seeing somebody die, but this was different. _

_I was used to Arthur waking me up at the most tedious times of day to keep moving and if I was here, I didn't want to wake up to his stilled body. I didn't want to sleep in the place that a friend had died in. I know before I claimed he was an accomplice, but it wasn't it. I had only been with him for 2 weeks and I counted him more than that. A friend he was and probably one of the best._

_I swung the guitar over my back, the straps putting a brief displaced weight on my injured shoulder as it bounced against my back. I picked up the pouch and stuck it in the inner pockets of my jacket. Before I picked up the cans though, I walked over to Arthur again. His chestnut hair was plastered to his face from the cold sweats of fever and his face was flushed ever so slightly. I took his pulse again because it had roughly been fifteen minutes by now since the last check up and I needed to see. I needed to be sure before I left. I didn't want to leave him when he was still breathing, though I preferred not leaving him at all to be honest._

_No pulse._

_When I backed away, I pulled out one of the blankets he kept in his pack and draped it over his stilled form, briefly tilting my head forward in respect. I picked up the cans and walked to the door. I opened it and walked out for a moment before back-tracking. _

_I peeked into the room at Arthur, whose eyes would never open again, and whispered as a sort of salute, "Goodbye, mate. See you on the other side."_

_With that, I shut the door to my only brief friend._

When I came back from the flash, Sherlock was still glancing out the window. He was bored, but he was in thought. I could tell. His eyes were quite distant and not-seeing. He was in his own little world leaving me to sag in my seat and look up at the low roof of the cab. If Arthur had been alive to meet Sherlock, they would have gone along quite well I would think, but Arthur was of the past. I would always hold a little piece of my mind and heart to him, but I couldn't mourn him forever. He would be happy to know I did get treated for the tuberculosis in it's early stages before it worsened, but it still made me feel awful nonetheless. He should have been saved. I should have been sacrificed.

As the cabbie drove to a stop, I step out of the car, immediately greeted by the cold air. I shivered, hating the wind for making the already chilly air more freezing. Weather always seemed to be the tree-topper when it came to a murder as awful as it sounds. It was practically the one element you could count on to make the already mourning day more depressing than it has to be.

Grumbling, I walked towards the lit door, his foot steps on my heels. I wanted to get out of this bloody climate before it got me sick _again_. I barely recovered from the treatment of the last one so a double-take would not exactly end well. Hopefully the heater was on in the building, or at least, maybe they could make a fire.

I reached the door first and opened it in a mocking way for Sherlock holding the cabbie door for me earlier. I swear, the cab driver was eying me weirdly. I. Was. Not. Gay. I'm perfectly straight. Sherlock just happens to be a gentleman of sorts obviously and just takes advantage of the habit. Don't know why he chose me to lay it upon when I don't really like being pampered, but he does and I have a sinking feeling the driver wasn't the only person who thought we were in some sort of relationship that we _were not_. Just flat mates and nothing more.

He raised a brow at me but quickly walked in at my glare. I saw a faint smirk on his lips and resisted the urge to yell at him.

_Shut it ,_I thought towards him, _I don't like being out here any more than I have to._

The sound of the door hitting the hinges once more resounded against the walls as I followed the tall, dark man.

"So... who is this colleague of yours?" I asked with idle curiosity.

"Molly," he answered swiftly. His attention wasn't on my prodding I could tell. He was just looking for the next lead for his case. Wonderful.

"Does she have a last name?"

"...Hooper."

I rolled my eyes at his short, clipped responses, "No need to be descriptive. I'm only going to meet this girl for the first time and have no idea what type of person she is. You could be _oh so wonderful_ as to tell my at least what she is bloody like but that would be so hard now wouldn't it? I know nothing of this particular Molly Hooper at all or even if she is as anti-social as you are being right now so please continue ignoring me."

I suppose the most annoying thing is that he actually did just that.

When we reached the door at the end of the hallway, I felt the hairs stick up on my arms as the cold settled in. Right, this was the morgue. They had to keep it cold so the bodies didn't decompose too quickly. Nonetheless, I did get a little testy over the fact that I left the cold only to return to it.

Sherlock opened the door and strode in. I quickly scuttled in as well only to come face to face with a young lady in a lab coat. She was much shorter than Sherlock, but then again I think every body practically was, and she had brown hair pulled up into a clean pony-tail. She didn't seem surprised by Sherlock being there, but she was a little peculiar over me. Well, this was my first time meeting her. More than likely she probably thinks I'm somebody who followed Sherlock or something. Sorry, but I doubt anybody would follow this stoic man once they knew what he was like. That didn't stop me of course, but I was different and used to it by now.

"Hello Molly," Sherlock greeted swiftly, arriving at the foot of the table. The body of the female was already there along with the other two that Sherlock decided to dismiss earlier. One was a male, perhaps in his late twenties, and the other was a female, around the mid-twenties. They were both shot in the head with dead accuracy and held the same tortured marks on their wrists and ankles. The female had blonde hair, no doubt with blue eyes as well, but the male had a sort of ginger colored hair with freckles dotting his nose and cheeks.

I could tell I wasn't the only one finding this out and it only was confirmed when I turned to Sherlock, who was analyzing everything.

I decided to leave him be and turned to Molly, "Hello. Um... My name is John Watson, but you can just call me John."

She tilted her head at me and smiled as she responded, "Oh? Are you a friend of Sherlock?"

I quickly shook my head, "Ah, I honestly haven't known him much. I'm only a colleague and possible flat mate. Nothing more."

She nodded, "Oh okay. I suppose you're here with him for the case then, yes?"

I nodded and leaned towards her, whispering, "Is he always like this? Does he normally get like this with a case?"

Molly was about to answer when Sherlock turned to me, rollings his eyes, "You are a terrible whisperer, John. Oh, but to answer your indirect and pointless question, I'm going to assume you mean my personality and actions. If so, then yes. I can't have little mice running wheels in my head like your little dull minds when a case is there to solve, no, I have to have my mind palace," he waved me off as he looked at the bodies again, a faint smile on his face, "Please, John. If you are solving a case, little tedious questions are not going to suffice in finding the solution quicker. You should know that, but if you don't, then you do know now. Please think your questions through before saying them aloud might I add."

I felt my eye twitch and Molly snickered beside me. I was close to scolding him, but I took a long, deep breath and instead spoke calmly, "Okay.. what have you deduced from them then since I'm sure you are _so_ adamant to share the information with us."

Looking at me, he shook his head and gave me a petri dish with white grains inside, "No, no John. No time. I'll tell you later, but for now, go see if you can find out what this is."

I glared at him as I took a hold of the dish, "I'm a doctor, not a bloody chemist."

He rolled his eyes, "Oh John... Please do your research. If you are a doctor, you should have the common knowledge of chemistry somewhere in that head of yours. Now off you go." I heard him chuckle lightly as I made some flabbergasted noises upon him pushing my out the door, "Oh, and the laboratory door is the second door to the right. I'll join you shortly."

As the door shut behind me, I stood there for a moment, shock registering on my face. Did he-?

_I swear _I thought with a light hint of malice before removing the anger with resignation, _Well, I suppose I should get used to this. This is case! Sherlock Holmes I am speaking of so I doubt he registers anything beyond his cases in this mode. I really should get a water bottle or something to squirt him with when he gets too hot to handle though._

After glaring at the door for a moment, I shook my head with a smile on my face. I walked to the laboratory door while trying to remember the first few steps of the scientific method.

* * *

_The song in this is Skylar Grey's Coming Home Part II. I heard it and I honestly love it more than part one._

_I swear. After I wrote the last thought John had, my sister and I cried from laughing. Imagine John holding a squirt bottle to Sherlock. Just imagine it. It would be quite the hilarious encounter, yes? _

_So, I hate this chapter. It isn't good at all, but hopefully it will suffice for now. _

_Chapter 6 WILL be up today. I promise. Pinky promise. _

_But yes, John had it difficult in his last two weeks of being on the streets, making friends with a terminal man... *sigh* at first I was going to give Arthur a lung puncture from when he fought with the hostile blokes of the streets, but then tuberculosis sounded a lot better and more impacting. _

_Review/Critique/Whatever you wish!_

_Ciao_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello you lovely readers. I broke a promise. I promised one yesterday (since it is now 12:29 am here), but I was busy. My father wanted to take me to see the Blue Men Group and then I had to clean and all that lovely, pointless actions._

_But yes, this is like another filler... kind of. I wrote this before chapter 5, originally planning on using this for perhaps chapter 10 or something, but then I wrote chapter 5 and saw how the two could coordinate with one another. It's choppy and I hate this chapter so very much, but I plan to make the 7th chapter extra special since I get to write a few hints of the johnlock, but I'm not going to make it sappy. I don't do sappy and let's face it, Johnlock sappiness isn't going to happen by chapter ten. That's unrealistic in my point of view, but there will be innuendos and hints._

_Thank you for the new followers and favorites! I love you all for that!_

_Oh, warning, this chapter is kind of a little bit of a friendship chapter thing I guess between Molly and John since it was a suggestion. Sherlock does appear, but he doesn't play a huge role in this one. Sorry Sherlock! You will get your time to shine in the next one, trust me._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I wish I did so I could preform all the possible ships, but that is highly irrational and unrealistic. I also don't own the song sung in this._

* * *

**John**  
"Prat. I'm a bloody doctor, not some chemical warfare genius," I muttered, adjusting the dial to 120x. I didn't know what I was looking for, especially since Sherlock just pushed the petri dish in my palms and declared he was going to observe the girls body. He didn't say "Oh look at the grains" or "test it with this", bit of course not. That would be too easy. He wants me to fry my cranium just so I can "think outside my dull, boring, insufferable box". Well, as a matter of fact, I was. I just couldn't see it.

It looked like regular sugar but telling Sherlock that would make him look at me like I was an idiot, in which to him I might as well be since he never expresses anything else. To him, I will just be his virtuous (probably not even that) blogger. As much as he claims to be smarter than the average man, he lacks in everything relating to social and emotional impacts. Knowledge of 243 different cigarette ash? Yes. Information as to how to say "I'm sorry?". No.

Sighing, I push back my short plastered bangs aside and went back to the microscope. Everything in front of my eyes were blurring as I stared at it longer and longer. What did Sherlock see that I did not? He saw who the murderer was more than likely as if the granites were alphabetical spaghetti-o's that was in plain sight.

Maybe my guitar will help me let off some frustration...

I was starting to air strum a tune when Molly ran in, strands of brown hair peeking out of her normal neat pony tail. She appeared to be heading to the locker rooms like she was going to leave and I could see it in the way she walked that she did. She wasn't briskly walking as if she was here for something, it was as if she was running away from something though that can't be it. Her hands were in tight, small fists by her side, stiffly swinging as if robotic. Everything shouted "I'm leaving because if I stay here it will not be good." Who would she be running from though? She was pretty much friends with anybody with her cheeky smile and bubbly attitude, despite being around the dead. It kind of made me want to ask her about it, but I suppose bothering her wouldn't be a good idea right now. Nonetheless, I walked to her and smiled a little before it fell at her tear-stained face. Her eyes were flushed red with pink indicators of how much she had been crying. It had been a lot and she still was crying. Oh god, what happened?

Forget formalities, she's a friend, I'm sure she will understand.

"Molly?" I questioned, "Are you alright?"

She gave me a watery smile, "Y-Yeah just perfect. I just... hit my head is all." She knocked her head a little with her knuckles to emphasize the point. Her eyes refused to meet mine though, she was lying. She never was the best liar, even In front of a "oblivious bore" as I.

"Molly," I pressured, "I know you certainly didn't hit your head. No indications or symptoms. You were, however, with Sherlock until a minute ago. What happened?"

She eyed my with wide eyes before shaking her head. She was tight lipped as she looked at me, walls coming up to shield her. I continued to watch her though. I knew if I did this long enough she would crack.

"You can tell me anything," I reminded her softly, watching as she started nibbling her bottom lip and running her fingers through her messy pony tail over and over.

"It really is nothing, John. I mean it. Just a little emotional I guess," she chuckled half - heartedly. No Molly. I know that's not it. Stop hiding behind lies, they only make it worse.

"Please? Maybe I can help. You never know," I tried to reassure, using my doctor voice that I place on frightened children who cry since they fear hospitals or needles or some little things. It sometimes worked, but was more potent when the person they loved most was helping in the soothing. Right now, Molly didn't have anybody with her but me and I don't think I count.

It did the trick though. She eyed me with a sad smile, giving a breathless chuckle, "nothing. I normally come to the lab like this, I just didn't expect you to be here John."

_I normally come to the lab like this._ She looked me in the eye as she said this. She wasn't lying. She comes here normally to cry? To wallow in her sadness _alone_? No. That isn't right. She shouldn't be alone or anything, but who was she to come to? I mean, I'm normally with Sherlock and when she rushes out I usually thought it was for evidence. I thought she was doing something very Molly. It was only chance that I even caught this now!

My doctor mode came in. How long had this been going on? Months? _Years_ even? It wasn't depression. I know depression due to being gripped by the dark cloud personally. She was still smiling with warmth and sunshine, but that...doesn't add up. She must be getting picked on then right? But then, and even if it was that, by who? I need to ask this. To help as a friend who is quite worried.

"Wait, you normally come here crying? How often?" I was upset. Molly was practically the kindest person I know besides Mrs. Hudson. She shouldn't be crying everyday in a lonely lab. She should be smiling, laughing, and perhaps even in love at the age she was in. Tear stained features didn't suit her well. It made her look outcast-ed and drained.

"Ah, it's of no use. Just forget it alright? I'll be working on the samples for S-Sherlock," she mumbled, walking over to the microscope to set up the petri dishes and slabs for the utensil.

I wasn't stupid though. She stuttered on Sherlock's name and only his name. He did something, or he has been doing something, to her and she has been coming here every time to let out the tears she holds inside. It's...awful how blatantly absurd Sherlock can be.

I leaned on the lab table in front of Molly, eying her with concern, "It was Sherlock wasn't it?"

Her hands shook as she placed the specimen down and nodded.

"What has he said or done to you, maybe I could talk-"

"No!" she spoke quickly, "I-I mean, no. It's okay. I'm used to it."

"It still doesn't answer my question Molly. You shouldn't be used to it either! That's not a good sign..."

She picked up the little dishes once more, ordering them in alphabetical order for the distinct detective not present. She was ignoring me a little. I could tell she didn't want to talk about it, but keeping it built up is not a healthy tactic. Talking to a friend is much better, at least she won't be suffering alone. Sherlock, the twat, may not care that she cries for him, but I have a tad bit more compassion and tact than him. He may think caring is a disadvantage, but right now, it is the only thing that will help. She isn't going to stop crying because of a turned head and nonchalant attitude as much as Sherlock may think so. She is human... like me. She needs to reside in someone that isn't his stoic, dickhead self; a pariah to emotional attachments.

I tapped the table, watching as each tap caused her to go a little more unsteady, a bit more unresolved. She wanted to drop it so bad, but she also wanted to speak. Her head was telling her to be quiet and reserved until she was home, but her heart was shouting to give in to friends. She was in the middle, in limbo, unsure as to what to do. I knew I could to nothing to push her and even if I did I still wouldn't do it. This was her decision and if she didn't want to tell me...well, then I will understand. I wouldn't be happy, but I would understand.

Time wore on like that, my tapping to her observations on the petri dish I long gave up on. I was going to leave her to herself when she spoke. It was soft, like she wasn't sure.

"It only happened after the first day I met him. At first, I thought he was handsome and smart..." she reddened slightly before taking a shaky breath, "but then I saw his actual side. You have seen it too John. The side of him that brushes you aside like you don't count? That's what he treats me like. I'm just a pawn he can throw away, a piece of a puzzle worth sacrificing to him."

"Now Molly-"

"He has never said thank you, you know," she mumbled softly with sad, downcast eyes, "he only dismisses my attempts to be his friend. I do try John, but I just don't seem to have the touch that you have with him. I have been his... mortuary guide for years and I haven't so much as gotten any sort of appreciation. You have been with him for not even a month and I can tell he has warmed up to you far better than myself."

"Honestly? I think he keeps me around just to keep Mrs. Hudson from forcing a flat mate onto him. He mostly refers to me a bore. You are far better Ms. Hooper." I was hoping for a smile but nothing of the sort.

"Does he mention me, at all?"

I blinked, "well..."

She shook her head, "he doesn't right? See John? You may be just his flat mate, but I bet you have seen his docile side. I only dream of being a friend long enough to see that."

"I rarely see it-"

"But at least you do, or have the chance to. I have seen the looks he gives you. He smiles and laughs and actually appreciates your assistance more than ever where as I have been here with nothing more than a quaint comment and a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. I'm not jealous so much as I am downcast on the actions, John."

I was silent, a little surprised by what she said. He has never actually taken into account what she has done for him? Ever? As much as I wanted to say that it was Sherlock we were talking about, I knew it wouldn't help the situation at all. She needed some sort of consoling but words were not it. She needed a different language that meant the exact same thing.

Good thing I knew exactly what that was.

Sighing, I smiled to her, "Here. Let me go get something. Will you sit in the stool in front of me please." She nodded and took a seat, eying me as I took out my guitar, a brand new fender with a gold finish with tinges of a faded blue. It was a gift since Sherlock could never get my other one back. I tried all week and nothing. This guitar was good, but it wasn't the same. It was still a little stiff, but I almost had it broken in. Only a few chords struggled here and there now.

I briefly judged Molly's face and expression, bodily and facial, before unraveling my pick from behind my dog tags. Even Sherlock didn't see it until I pulled it from its crevice.

"I'm not the best with creating songs on the spot," I spoke softly, a little sheepish grin on my face, "But I can surely think of something to cheer you up, Ms. Molly Hooper. I can at least do that for a brilliant woman as you. Improvising may be on my side today just for you."

I plucked a few notes here and there to think of the right song to start to. I always wrote the guitar portion of a song before placing lyrics, always thinking the guitar is what mattered. I just had to think of the right song to start with. Something slow and peaceful, yet it holds an underlining of wistful thinking and unsaid emotion.

I ceased my fingering as the notes flowed through the tips. That tune. That one will work for her.

Strumming with more meaning, I started playing:

_When she was just a girl_  
_She expected the world_  
_But it flew away from her reach_  
_So she ran away in her sleep_  
_Dreamed of para- para- paradise_  
_Para- Para- Paradise_  
_Para- Para- Paradise_  
_Every time she closed her eyes_  
_Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh_

_When she was just a girl_  
_She expected the world_  
_But it flew away from her reach_  
_And the bullets catch in her teeth_

_Life goes on_  
_It gets so heavy_  
_The wheel breaks the butterfly_  
_Every tear, a waterfall_  
_In the night, the stormy night_  
_She closed her eyes_  
_In the night, the stormy night_  
_Away she'd fly._

_And dreamed of para- para- paradise_  
_Para- Para- Paradise_  
_Para- Para- Paradise_  
_Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh_

_So lying underneath those story skies_  
_She said oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh_  
_I know the sun's set to rise._

_This could be para- para- paradise_  
_Para- para- paradise_  
_This could be para- para- paradise_  
_Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh._

_This could be para- para- paradise_  
_Para- para- paradise_  
_Could be para- para- paradise_  
_Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh_

_This could be para- para- paradise_  
_Para- para- paradise_  
_Could be para- para- paradise_  
_Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh._

_Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo_  
_Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo_

I continued to pluck the strings, even after the lyrics ended, to make it softly drift off.

Looking up, she was crying again. Wait, did I make her cry? Was my song making this ten times worse than it was before.

"Oh God Molly, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry-"

"No, no it's okay John. That-That was the most beautiful and the kindest thing anybody has ever really done for me. Thank you." With that she walked over to where I was placing my guitar against the table and hugged me. It made me feel older, but it was okay if it made her happy. Her body trembled slightly, but that quickly disappeared within a few seconds. She was showing her brief side of weakness before steeling up for the rest of the day. I frowned, but said nothing as I felt a few stray tears soak into my shirt. I patted her back a little awkwardly, a little unsure of what to do. Should I murmur little nothings or should I do worthless somethings? I was never one for comforting, even if I was a doctor of sorts. Maybe rubbing the back up and down could help. It was what my mother used to do with me so I suppose it would work here, right?

Deciding to do what my mother did to me, I gently made circles on her back along with little other shapes like her name and a smiley face. Little things really, but I knew that she was calming down a bit from it. Her tears and little hiccups were slowly fading to the occasional hitch of breath. Good, that's it. You really shouldn't be upset Molly... Especially from a dick-head like Sherlock.

I swear I'm going to punch Sherlock next time I see him though. Punching him had been in little notations here and there since I met his arrogant nature. I mostly hear it in minor subtext to what he does, but this act was in bright read letters in the script. It was bold, italicized, and underlined for me to see on a bright neon light. No subtitles to keep me from performing it.

Turned out that was going to come quicker than I thought.

"Hey Molly, would you-" He stopped when he saw me glaring at him. He looked earnestly confused and it almost set me off guard a little. Did he really think he did nothing wrong? How oblivious can this prat be to emotions? He probably didn't know he was hurting her and as much as that angered me, it made me feel some pity for the man. He was human, just inexperienced I suppose.

His eyes were trying to deduct what had happened, but came up empty. I could hear Molly scurry around to try and set up the microscope, but nothing was said. Silence was tangent right now with flickers of stress.

I looked at Molly and her face was turned away from Sherlock and me, focused entirely on her work. She refused to share a look with me, knowing exactly that Sherlock would deduce what had happened. She didn't want him to know, especially since I wasn't even supposed to know. She was trying to keep it a secret for as long as it could take though she knew that since I found out it was only a matter of the hour that Sherlock would see. Molly had years to steel up against Sherlock where as I haven't even had a few days to adjust to his persecuting looks. I was still an open book, slowly inching towards being taped shut.

I sighed and stood, grabbing my guitar case and swung it over my shoulder. I was not going to punch Sherlock now that I think of it, but I wasn't going to stay here either. I didn't want to give Molly away and I didn't want to deal with his oblivious remarks at the moment. Picking up a few papers of my research I had gathered, I place them in the case before walking towards the exit. By then, Sherlock could sense I was leaving and watched me with curiosity and minor concern.

"Where are you going John? We have a case to finish. If your hungry, I can send Molly to get something."

I was almost going to leave without punching him. I was almost going to walk out that door with no scratches on his face, but that did it. The remark was almost exactly what I was angry at him for being. Absurd and utterly ignorant to those who try to care for him. Turning around swiftly, I threw a left hook at Sherlock's nose, effectively earning a grunt as he clutched his bleeding nose. It wasn't broken, I know how much pressure it takes to break ones nose, but it was definitely going to be painful and bloody for a while. Sometimes the perks of being in the medical field were endless. Perhaps now he will think of what he had done, or become slightly more observant to the aura of the scene. Read the mood so to speak.

"John!" Molly yelped, running over to Sherlock to start wiping his face with the paper towels. Sherlock on the other hand watched me with confusion and minor annoyance, "What was that for?"

Oh what I would give to punch him again, but no. One punch was good enough, for now anyways. That, and I swear his sharp cheekbones cut my knuckles when I grazed them.

"Why don't you ask Molly. It's your fault anyways." With that I walked out of the lab, fists bleeding and a destination in mind. As I walked away, I heard Sherlock and Molly speak a little.

"I am confused Molly. One second John is happy that we are getting close to the murderer and ending this tiring charade, and the next he punched me to the ground with the anger of a wild wildebeast," Sherlock mumbled, grabbing the towels from Molly's shaky hands to clean his face himself.

"He had a good reason to," she replied softly. I knew Sherlock would be looking at her for that comment. It was simple and unexplained so he would want an explanation.

"What did I do to get it?" he muttered and I knew he was probably thinking it had something to do with his habits at home and not with people.

Turning back to look at the two, I saw Molly lift her head and looked Sherlock in the eyes.

"Molly... you've been crying..."

After that, I left the room, my anger displaced with a draining of energy and the will for this day to be over already.

**-Unknown POV-**

I watched from my perch behind an alley as an angry John Watson strode out of the laboratory. His hands were in fists and his mouth in a tight line. Ah, he was angry. That's good. He won't notice much with his anger clouding his eyes then. Perfect! Well, I suppose if he wasn't angry it would be more interesting, but oh well. I'll take what I can get since I don't want Johnny boy to sense what is going on. That would spoil everything and once a game is spoiled, the supposed loser will win! Where's the fun in that? Utterly no where.

He looked as if he was brewing profanities in his mind as he stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his hand in mid-air. He was trying to decide whether to get a cab or not.

He ended up hailing a cab so that means he was planning to walk home. Probably to get rid of all that stress he has pent up from being around Sherlock. I sighed as I saw him turn into an alley, his eyes glazed over in thought. I just wish he was a little more imaginative in his way home. At least if he hailed a cab, I could have caused a car accident, murder, suicide all in one! Now I have to resort to the more dull, parasitic methods and although they may be a little more satisfying and lengthy, they didn't have the same impact as a bomb or a pill that causes asphyxia on your own bodily fluids.

People these days are so boring and dull; often associated with those of the good. Well, the good are foolish, which is why I'm not one of them. If there is one thing I'm not, it's a fool.

Motioning to the man next to me, we start to follow Dr. Watson down the alley way. My precious hit man, Sebby, inched in front of me, his ginger hair clouding my view. I frowned, but decided to whine about the actions later when my game wasn't at stake.

Removing a long, lead pipe from under his coat, I saw him lift it. The shadows didn't give as away nor did any useless, nosy people. It was the perfect scene for a murder, though as much as it pained me, this wasn't going to be a murder, moreover an attack on the king in a revolving chess game. The reaction would be up to the opposing side of course. Would he try to save his king, or would he sacrifice him in terms of redoing the game? It all truly depends on the man of choice, though I have a feeling he will choose the first rather than the latter. He was so dull that way with undetectable sentiment and underlining emotion.

The hit was quick and swift with no shriek to be heard. Smiling at Sebby, I prance over to the crumpled form, using my two fingers to feel for a pulse. It was faint, but still there. I glared at Sebby, a little miffed by how close we got to exposing our side for check mate, "You almost killed him!"

He shrugged, "I don't know why you want him alive anyways. You were going to kill him despite everything right? I just made it more quicker and a little less psychotic."

I pouted, "Aw. Sebby, why are you so mean! You can't get rid of my toy when I just opened the package you know," I smiled before adding in a sing-song voice," But don't be so obvious! I'm going to kill him soon enough, but it won't be right now. I want to see him suffer so he knows that his death will be so much more painful and utterly gleeful might I add."

Sebby shook his head, "Sometimes I worry if working with you was such a good idea after all-"

"-But then you see how amazing I am in terms of murders and crawl back to me with a trigger finger itching for blood," I finished with a smirk.

A humorless chuckle before he picked up the unconscious John. He didn't even grunt or flinch from the weight of the ex-army doctor. He acted as if it was just another murder and swung him limply over his shoulder. Blood was dripping down John's face and onto the pavement. Well, I didn't say I was going to let John get out nice and easy did I? Besides, this was more so a... punishment for Sherlock than to John so who cares what I do to him. Daddy is not happy and he needs to teach his boring son who to listen to, even if it means taking his toys away in the process and locking him up in a white room.

I skipped ahead of the two and lead the way to our temporary home, or to John, his temporary hell.

**John**

When I awoke, I was in a dark room, attached to a chair with my hands tied behind my back by the wrists. The rope was so tight it was digging into my skin almost like a scalpel. My ankles were also attached the legs of the chair by rope. My head was swimming, barely able to focus on anything.

What happened? Last thing I remembered was that I was walking through an alley to get home. I refused to get a cab because I needed the fresh air to clear my thoughts, but that might have been the better choice now that I think of it. The only concept I was sure of was that I got hit by a pipe in the back of my head, but I didn't know what happened afterward. Everything went black with only pain as my friend.

I flinched as I felt a cold draft hit my wound. It was still fresh so I hadn't been here long, right? Where even was _here_?

I couldn't tell anything from this room. It was dark and quiet. It held a musty scent to everything along with dust I believe. Judging by the brief claustrophobia I was feeling, it was a small room. Too small for my comfort. So windows anywhere, but a few bricks or boards must have been knocked out to feel the draft that hit my wound. As I tried to notice any other aspects in the room, I felt a sharp pain in my cranium and flinched. Okay, maybe thinking too hard wasn't a good idea.

Still, I don't even know why I was here. I didn't do anything wrong, blimey, I didn't even have an actual home until a few days ago! I was homeless and as far as I knew, didn't cause too many negative actions unless some blokes got too territorial over a building or a specific corner of an alley. This was different though. This wasn't an angered homeless man, no, this was somebody of more clarity. It had to be. Rope nowadays was quite hard to get a hold of if you were on the streets unless you knew people, and not many do. The chair was wooden, but it had sewn in cushions so it was also on the wealthy side. This was a man of wealth, power, and capability.

I tried moving my hands again to no avail. My vision was still blurred with a black fog along the edges. I could feel my head becoming slightly lighter, but harder to keep up. My heart beat was slowing down to a more slower pace. My finger tips and toes were becoming frozen. Oh God, I lost too much blood, I am _losing _too much much blood. All the blood I do have is retreating to the vital organs to keep them going. If I don't get out of here and into the public somehow, I was going to die here.

It was at this point that I saw the door open. Light poured in and hit me in the face. My head was screaming in retaliation of the sudden change in scenery and I felt it with the sudden pounding and faint ringing in my ears. No, I can't black out from such a little thing! You're a soldier John, or at least you were, but nonetheless, you can't throw in the towel at such a little reactant. Pull it through John.

I squinted as I noticed the two figures standing at the edge. One was taller than the other by perhaps a good few inches. The taller silhouette stood stiffly with his arms lanky and his hands in his pockets. Although, since their forms were black, they could also be behind his back with a weapon of notion. I hope not. I don't know how long this body can take thanks to the previous blow.

The shorter one was a lot more playful looking, though he also seemed to be the one in charge.

I began to feel my heart drop when they shut the door behind them, leaving me in utter darkness and with the feeling that I will not get out of here without a single scratch. Far, far worse than that.

**Unknown POV**

As I shut the door, I carefully walked over to John. His face was priceless when we opened the door. You should have seen it! It was a mixture of confusion, worry, and pain. I love it when all three of those emotions are put into play. It makes for a wonderful interrogation and torture.

The lights were to remain off. That was strictly to keep my identity in check and undercover. I didn't want to reveal my hand to such a boring individual as John, at least, not yet. I want to remain a shadow so that when I do appear, they will be caught off guard and I can take my prize. Planning can be a pain, but it does have it's points.

"Hello John," I purred next to John's ears, my eyes already adjusted to the darkness. Peering over at Sebastian, I could tell his were too. He had his Swiss army knife gripped firmly between his hands, reflexes ready for an slice I commanded.

John flinched at my voice and I chuckled lightly.

"W-What do you want?" he asked. It was supposed to be forceful, like a command, though it was faltering. Ah, the blood loss must be taking its toll. Absolutely lovely. A weak mouse gives me something to play with.

"I don't think you are in the perspective to be asking questions traitor," I responded with a sickening sweet voice. John stilled visibly, his voice shortening as I mentioned the vital word that meant everything to him. The word that gave away what he did. He is such a silly boy, though. He was a soldier, so he should be able to brush this aside. I guess he is too weak, this angel. His wings were stripped of him, leaving him to fall to the earth in an unceremonious announcement. Tragic really, but I enjoy tragedies with a passion. This one, John, was only one of many.

"I- How do you know about that," he whispered, his voice losing all strength. Pity. I was hoping for a more fiery attitude in his being. Oh well.

"Oh, I have my sources," I chided, "But that's besides the point. You are wondering why you are here yes? A little injured mouse in a long, tedious game with a cat. Well, you are not really here for something _you _did per say. You are actually here for the actions of somebody else. You just happened to get attached to the wrong sort of company I fear," I picked up my hands and shook my head, a mockingly sad look on my face.

"Sherlock," John whispered and I grinned.

"Yes. Good boy. I'm sure Sherlock has trained you well as his little _pet_."

"I won't tell you anything about him, or the case we are in. I hope you know that," John spoke defiantly. I felt my smile turn upside down and vaguely motioned for Sebastian to get his knife ready. He nodded and ripped off the jacket and shirt that John was wearing, cutting the sleeves where they started getting close to the tied wrists. John shivered heavily as the cold weather met his skin and I giggled.

"Now, now Johnny. You really shouldn't dismiss such _innocent_ inquiries. Daddy has had enough of this, you see, and I'm sure once you have learned your... lesson, you will be fully ready to respond."

I gestured to Sebastian again and he grinned a little malicious grin of his own. And he says _I'm _the psychological one! Well, to be fair, I suppose I did have maybe a little influence on him. It showed in how he stalked towards John. My hands itched to join in the painful charade, but I prefer not to get my hands dirty.

Sebastian stood in front of John, staring down at him. Then, at once, he slashed multiple lacerations on John's upper arms. At first they were shallow before they delve further into his skin, dark liquid pouring out. I imagined it being crimson, but couldn't satisfy the hunger with the lights being off. All the same, the liquid continued to pour heavily out of John as Sebastian finished his tattered arms and began on his chest. I pitied the poor man for being literally all skin and bones, but it quickly fled to glee as cuts adorned his pale body as well. I watched in awe as Sebastian started getting more creative. He used his knife to write words. I made out a few and they were harsh, but beautiful.

During all of this, John was yelling. At first he was brave, trying to hold in the pain, but he had to let it out somehow and I must say the screams were like music to my ears. Beautiful and utterly inhuman in some ways. God, I should witness Sebastian's play time much more often if it's like this.

Once I felt that John had learned his lesson, I placed a calm hand on Sebastian's shoulder. He nodded and backed off, black liquid falling off his knife in small, potent drops.

I tilted John's head up and looked him in the eyes, "Now, will you tell me anything of my choosing, _pet_?"

John was barely conscious, but nonetheless still shook his head.

Angered, I dropped his head, watching as it hit his chest and stayed there. Before I walked out, I looked at Sebastian, "Do whatever you like Sebby. Think of this as an early birthday present."

With that, I shut the door.

It was only a matter of time until he was broken anyways. When that did happen, then I suppose I'll just go after the more expensive toy.

* * *

_The song I had John sing was based off the acoustic version of Paradise by Coldplay. The original is wonderful as well, but I was influenced for the acoustic. This mainly occurred because of the fact that I saw a certain unrequited Sherlolly video on youtube where it's about Molly liking Sherlock but not the other way around and all. The song was that song and therefore, I used it. It's quite fitting actually._

_Okay, maybe I lied a little bit. It was a little Molly/John comrade stuff, but I couldn't help but to place a little pain in there. I'm sorry, I enjoy writing dark, depressing, and utterly painful literature. I enjoy reading such as well. Overall, I'm even a depressed type of person, so it is to be expected that John will get hurt... a lot._

_Now, with that said, I will admit that writing the Unknown POV of the Man That Shall Not Be Named, was really fun. I enjoyed it a lot since it was just... just so carefree and downright sadistic. Ah, I might have to start out the next chapter with his POV with how I enjoy writing such._

_Sebastian, as some of you know, more than likely does not look like how I describe him. I honestly tried to search a legit description of his appearance, but few sources were found so this is how he is pictured in my mind for now. I may return later to change it to blond or some other absurd color when I get more information._

_Poor John though. He will be traumatized you know. That much I will guarantee. PTSD... not so sure._

_That's it! I will try to force another chapter out of me this week but I cannot promise such. I have an art competition this Saturday and my pieces must be done by Friday. I still have a lot of work and even more paperwork to do, so my schedule is tight. No matter though, if I can't get it out this week, you WILL get two chapters next week for sure. (Maybe even three, I don't know.)_

_You know the drill. Comment/Critique and all that. _

_Ciao_


	7. Chapter 7

_I'm so sorry for how utterly horrible this will be! For all this week, as well as last weekend, I was sick with the flu and since I was a stubborn arse about it, I refused to take any medicine that would get me better. I have been feverish and have been harnessing constant migraines, but I was adamant on writing this for you guys! I don't know how good it is, but I hope it helps for now? _

_Chapter 8 is in the writing and I'm actually typing it quite a bit (hopefully it will be out this week). Um... let's see, other than that I suppose you shouldn't expect any other delays! I'm going to state for the art competition I mentioned but that isn't until early April so I have a lot of time till then. The only hindering aspects to suspect are my health really. If I'm not feverish, or at least if I can read the words, expect me to write a lot. _

_I really need to stop rambling about these pointless things haha~ but nonetheless, thank you for all the lovely reviews, follows, favorites, etc! I love you all for that and it was nice to check my email after school and find another follow/review/favorite because that meant you actually liked it!_

_Oh, I want to thank the ever so wonderful World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady for conversing with me! She is utterly amazing you guys. Her writing is fantastic and she is the best person ever with her kindness and everything! Please take a look at her fanfictions because they are worth it! :)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Nope, nope, nope. Do I wish so? Yes. But I don't._

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**Unknown POV**

The streets were beginning to be speckled with white as we drove by. It was pretty, though uncommon here. We didn't normally get too much snow, but when it did occur, I usually used it to the best of my advantage. That being murder and owing people. The snow was perfect when you wanted to disturb peace in the bustling city of London. A cold, stiff body in a cold, beautiful wonderland of white. Red splatter feet from the corpse. A bullet wound to the head. A few noticeable methods to incise a paling remains. Most of these were enough to make the usual boring man cringe and become traumatized, but I lived for it, thrived for it even. Thought it to be a game of sort, and in more ways than one, it was.

A simple, risky game of chess. Of course, in this game I will forever be the darker side, alluding the other side to my tactics. I aim to make them suffer for my own personal enjoyment, though nowadays less and less people have met my requirements. I only have a few people on my list before I must resort to the common-wealth. It was absolutely depressing in terms of boredom. The common were gullible. Kill the wife, murder the daughter, lacerate the father, it all was the same. If you were to delete the physical contact of the individual closest to them, they will do anything. Anything at all.

This has led me to my current game. A new opponent has resided into the white side and he meets my requirements with determination.

Sherlock Holmes.

I planned at first to go after his older brother, but why get rid of one when you can get rid of two birds with one stone? Granted this would deprive me of one less of a match, but it will be even more appealing to see two men cringe in defeat than one. If I get rid of the one close to Sherlock, I will break him. If I break the spirit of the elder Holmes younger brother, he himself with break and resort to the most reckless of methods. From there on, the game will be most pleasant and utterly suspenseful. The best kind.

But right now it is far too early to be planning such a meticulous task as that. Right now, I must return my turn of the chess board. I must use my knight to get rid of a minor pawn. I need to get rid of one brick on his wall so he will weaken ever so slightly. I just wish John was a much more prominent pawn than he was.

Sighing, I lean on the window and motion to Sebastian, "How long until we get there Sebby? I feel as if I'm going to have to start doing some mark-making of my own with all this boredom piling up."

Sebastian looked up at me before going back to cleaning his knife, "You wanted to do this in the first place so don't go complaining to me. It's not like I care if you start killing the man on your own. Wouldn't be the first time."

I whined, tugging on Sebastian's black sleeve, "But I can't _kill_ him. He isn't important to Sherlock enough yet. Can't you give me something to do?"

His eye twitched, "Play the quiet game."

Pouting, I plumped back into my side of the seat, arms crossed over my chest. I should have brought my cell phone or something or the sort if I knew it was going to take this long. I could have been planning the next slicing of a pawn at that moment, but instead I sat there absolutely bored out of my mind. I began tapping on the glass, condensed with the temperature difference from outside and in, drawing little figures. I drew an apple and smiled before writing "I O U" in it. Smiling, I looked at Sebastian, tugging on his sleeve again.

"Can I see your phone?"

He rolled his eyes and handed it over, "You never listen if I say no anyways."

Unlocking his phone, I pointed it at the window and snapped the picture of the apple. Playing with the effects, I made sure to make the apple stand out compared to the rest of the transparent glass. Satisfied with the results, I grabbed John's phone from his pant pocket and copied the number down onto the contacts before sending the picture. As I continued playing with both phones, I felt Sebastian look over my shoulder with a raised brow.

"I owe you?"

I turned to him and rolled my eyes at his obvious incompetency, "Yes. I obviously owe Sherlock for giving me an interesting game to play. I owe him so much and everyone knows I pay my debts back in full," I smiled sweetly at the ginger-haired man whom just shrugged and went back to cleaning his knife.

By the time I was finished setting John's phone up, the cab had stopped at our destination. I motioned for the driver to stay as we take out the trash and opened the door. Sebastian did the same and picked up the unconscious John Watson, throwing him over his shoulder once more like a bag of potatoes. I myself dropped John's phone into a prepared envelope and sealed it quickly and neatly, a smirk on my lips as I eyed the injured soldier.

He wasn't in good shape. Many incisions decorated his pale, brittle body like scars and I was proud to say that I saw most of them occur. Some of the more deeper and fresher ones were when I walked out though. I didn't ask Sebastian what he did, assuming that he just tested out his new skills on his present. I was just happy that our first pawn was taken care of. One of many. Of course, I just hope that Sherlock gets home soon or his precious pet may be dead. If I remember correctly, he didn't exactly recover too well from the last pet he lost.

"What if the old woman is home?"

I shrugged, "We say john was passed out on the road and we are just taking him home."

"Why don't we just kill her?"

I glared at him, "Don't make it too obvious Sebby. You know I can't do that, not yet at least. I have to wait for the right moment to get rid of that part. I have to time it right so I can burn the king."

Sebastian eyed me, "You use chess allusions too often you know. Why can't it be some other game, checkers or monopoly of some sort? Why does your games resemble chess?"

I smiled and patted his arm, "Ah, well, think of it as this, most of the people I _play_ with are always the supposed best in one way or another. This makes them the aim, the king. Now, checkers has no king, all its subjects are equal. Nobody is equal to the opponent, or isn't supposed to be. That is why there is only one opponent. The rest are just subordinates, mere pawns that relate to the king, but are not important."

He nodded, "Right."

Laughing a little at the subtle answer, I scurry to the door. I was anxious to get this out of the way. This would be the first move of my many, but it all would be pointless if Sherlock never tried to retaliate, and if I was correct, he will be home soon enough.

I went ahead first and opened the door. It just happened that the old woman wasn't home at this time. How... disappointing to be honest. It would have been fun to have an extra move on the board. A little bit more blood to the bath.

Walking up the wooden steps, we arrived at Sherlock's flat. It didn't take long to unlock the door, amateur really.

John was still bleeding quite a lot still. I briefly wondered if Sebastian hit a vital organ or artery, but brushed it aside. If Sherlock was going to be home soon, then I have no need to worry! He will be able to save his precious pet. Nonetheless, blood drops were making a trail to the flat_._ It was like a crimson bread crumb path that Sherlock would follow home. He wouldn't meet a witch this time around, but oh how he will later. After all, every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain and I just happen to be the best.

"Where do we place this one?" Sebastian grumbled, grunting a little as he adjusted the dying man on his shoulder.

I briefly consider the messy surroundings before shrugging, "Just drop him here. The room is too stuffy and cluttered to really think it over it seems. Daddy wishes that Sherlock kept his room clean, but I will punish him later for that."

He did just that. I heard the thump as Sebastian practically rolled John off his shoulder onto the floor. It wasn't the heavy one of a grown man, but the echo of a dying one.

I removed the envelope with John's phone from my pocket and observed it quickly. The display with the image should be set for 10 minutes, plenty of time for Sherlock to get home and notice the package, or if he saves John, for John to tell him about the envelope.

With that, I placed the envelope in John's left pocket of his jacket and walked out, satisfied, but not fully.

An odd event happened at that moment. While Sebastian and I walked down the stairs, Sherlock was walking up them. I purposely moved to the side and bumped into the coated man. Briefly sharing glances with me, he mumbled a gritted attempt of an apology, a nod of sorts, before continuing his ascent. I smiled and turned back to the door, scuttling out and into the door of the black vehicle we arrived in just as I heard Sherlock running down the stairs, looking for the man that he bumped into.

**Sherlock**

When I opened the door to the flat, I breathed in the warm air and sighed. The smell of cookies wafted through the air, but that was not of my attention. I didn't even initially plan to come home to this flat until I caught the criminal amateur behind this, but I couldn't exactly run around without some of my supplies, not to mention John as well. I was slightly annoyed at how he punched me for not being able to see emotion, but how was I supposed to know exactly? Emotion was not in my code when I grew up, he of all people should assume that by now considering the things he has seen and learned, but I suppose not.

Sometimes I wish I could be some type of advanced mechanism, something that couldn't feel or respond to external stimuli. Empathy, concern, worry, _pain_ would all be dispersed around me as nothing more than lights that reflected off my metal casket. I wouldn't be clouded by emotions when they are unwanted. Such an instance was like now, with what Molly lectured me for earlier.

The mere thought of her retaliating to my actions was a slight disadvantage, but nonetheless, I was still utterly emotionless when she spoke to me. Her our-of-character oration was nothing to be too fond of. I absorbed it for further analysis. It was something I hadn't expected or truly thought of until brought of. It was like a piece of paper flying around my head, but my searching hands never legitimately grasping it. At least, not until now.

What Molly had said came back to me, it was brief and pointless like her normal responses, but it stood out among the rest.

_"Molly... You've been crying."_

_Molly reached up at rubbed her eyes briefly before looking at me again, a wry smile on her features, "No. Don't be silly. You should be ignoring this you know," she added in a hollow whisper to herself, "like you do everything else that doesn't pertain to you."_

_I blinked, "Excuse me?"_

_The words on her lips were not a hit to the gut as most people would assume, but they were mildly discerning at most. Something that tapped my consciousness into paying attention to the small voice I vaguely heard._

_Her brown eyes were red and raw around the edges, showing worse for wear. I let no change of emotion fall onto my eyes or mouth as I observed this. Her wet cheeks and her coarse bottom lip, bitten from nervousness and anxiety. Strands of light brown hair fell into her eyes as she constantly blew them out of the way. She was severely upset before. I'd imagine if she wore make-up like the other insecure females, it would be running down her face dramatically._

_As those same auburn brown eyes fell on me, they fell, hiding whatever was in them. I didn't need eyes to see into what people were feeling, or thinking. It was just another method to aid in my theories and deductions. For the other sources, I could just glance at her body language. She was curled in, a little scared, and her hands were constantly rubbing together at the thumbs, reddening the pads at the phalanges softly. Her mouth opened and closed. She wanted to say something. Well, then this was pointless. If she wanted to say something, then she should come out right and say it._

_"Well? What is it Molly?" My voice was slightly tinged with a louder adjective and frustration as she continued to look at me. What was so awful in her mind that she couldn't decide whether to say it or not? It's not like I will care too much anyways with the case on my mind as well as John's actions and reactions._

_She seemed to realize this as she nodded her head affirmatively, still avoiding my eyes a little. A brief smile popped on her features. So she concluded something, well, that's a supposed victory to her easily-appeased mind. _

_I was so in thought of deducing her actions that I didn't notice the small sound emanating from her small mouth, free of the make-up she tried to appeal to me that one day._

_She chuckled and stood, handing me another towel to wipe the blood from my face. Her eyes were sad, but the rest of her face was a tad brighter. I briefly said my thanks and gave her the dirtied one as a swap. She took the bloodied towel away, throwing it in the bin before returning to my side again. She relaxed beside me, but not close enough to be making direct contact I took notice. She brought her knees to her chest. Laying her chin in the top of her jean-covered knees, she stared out in front of her, mumbling more to herself than I, but of course I heard her nonetheless._

_"You see what you want to see, what is relevant to you. I've noticed this you know. I may be your little laboratory helper, but I'm a little observant. That's why I got the job. Nonetheless, I... I was hoping that perhaps in time you would act differently to me, think differently of me, but I see I was wrong. You see me as an acquaintance at most, don't you? But you see John, already three days in, as a friend."_

_I mused it over, nodding, "Yes. I don't see though, I observe. I observe what is germane to my cases, if that's what you mean."_

_Molly shook her head, a small giggle escaping her lips. It was light, almost mocking in a way. It was contradictory to her frown minutes ago. To myself, it was a drastic change. So drastic in fact that I found myself confused. What was funny about what I just said? As far as I knew, it was completely logical and not humorous in the slightest of ways._

_"You need to learn to multitask Sherlock. Observe when it comes to your cases and just when you absolutely need it, but see when it comes to people. People, like me or John, are only human you know, we don't need observations. Sight is what you need when it comes to this. When it comes to emotions, no deductions are needed for some, or never truly a necessity, but just noticing something is wrong is good enough."_

_'Seeing when it comes to people? Observing when it comes to cases?' I mulled over, 'Shouldn't I just do one full time as to not bother learning both. Seeing is never useful when information is needed, so what is so relevant about the topic?'_

_"What are you saying?" I eyed her, a little confused, but understanding the most of what she was saying. Or, at least, I made it seem so. I didn't want to appear an idiot now of all times._

_"That you need to learn to see people as people and not evidence to your constant, amazing mind. That's why you didn't notice me... that's why John did. He noticed it immediately even though it was only his first time meeting me. He_ sees _people unlike you who only_ observes _people," she shrugged with a smile and stood up once more, dusting her lab coat, "You two are a good team I'll admit. I just wish..." She let the word roll off quietly, catching what she was about to say. This only intrigued my interest slightly._

_"Wish what?" I stood up as well, wiping my hands with the towel she handed me._

_She thought for a moment before scurrying back to her work bench, "nothing! Nothing at all, um... what would you like for me to do? John appears to have started the scope for you, but I don't think he gathered much..."_

_Pointless rambling came out of her mouth once more, none of that seeing and observing prattle. She was flustered a light pink, but was the same as usual. Her mind was elsewhere, probably thinking of the subject she almost gave away. Such a problematic theory to her must be something atrocious if she has been colored so by such a thing as thinking it. How odd. I'll never understand emotion like this._

_She kept trying to get my attention on the white grains and after a while of idle thought, I conceded, trailing back to the microscope with hollow fingers lightly turning each dial into place. The invisible puppet strings pulled every joint of my hands to the petri dish, but my thoughts were on something else; rather, someone else. A certain man that now leaves a blossoming bruise on the side of my face and has currently stormed out._

_"Molly, what did you and John speak of? Judging by your obvious flinching of the mention and the sudden stiffness, it was in relation to myself. Though, I suppose, who else would it be about since this whole cascade revolved around me? Exactly. What did he do, or more specifically, what did he say?"_

_She peered over at my, softly chirping to the vials in front of her,"H-He asked why I was crying, you know, the normal, dull stuff that you don't like," she smiled and fidgeted with the small corks between her fingers,"but nothing more. He sang to me to help me calm down."_

_"He sang to you?" I prodded, interest piqued._

_Shuffling from foot to foot, she nodded, "Y-Yes. He's like you I think when it comes to comfort, though you did mention he was a soldier in the morgue right? He's kind of awkward with the normal affections, so he pulled out his guitar and played a song. It was... beautiful." _

_My eyes widened ever so slightly and the genuine smile on her face before receding back to the microscope,"I see. That is all Molly. Thank you."_

_Like a disturbed bird, her feathers began to furrow aimlessly, "E-Eh? Um, no problem! Er... I mean, do you want a coffee? Two sugars-"_

_"-black, yes. I will be observing these while you're gone."_

_With that, she scurried out. I watched her leave and as the last final swing of the door came to a halt, I felt the sigh hidden so carefully leave my lips. _

_I could tell she was trying to change the subject, and for once, I didn't try to change it back. My mind was still trying to understand everything that had occurred in those brief __five minutes._

It was a problem that I couldn't unravel immediately, and _that_ itself was irritating. I couldn't understand, no that's not the right word. I understand emotions well-enough. They were useless in deductions and crime solving. When has such a flaw become a dependability? The only use was getting in the way of the real problem. I suppose the right way to word it was that I didn't _possess_ _the ability_ to discern one set of emotions to another, and at that, to any relevance to my own situation.

What Molly had said was that I needed to relay emotions more, which was utterly ludicrous. I grew up with little to no influence of the sort and I have turned out completely _fine_ as I recall.

Sighing, I walk up the seventeen stairs, half-seeing what was in front of me. I was so concentrated in my mind palace that I didn't see the man that ran into me. Turning my head to his own, I took sight of his eyes. They were gleeful, expecting. By the way his body language was situated, he did it on purpose. I was in no way at fault. He did something to infuriate me probably. If that is so, he will be disappointed greatly by how much I can take.

I nodded to the hooded, grinning man and continued my way up, taking note on his steps. They were light, prancing even. Ah, I see. He performed an act that he was highly proud of, apparently one that may be slightly troublesome on my part. I chuckled softly at the notion of a little discomfort on my part.

He definitely wasn't an ordinary man. He was a mysterious sort. Still too dull for my mind to develop further examination, but interesting enough for it to vaguely comprehend his form.

When I reached the top, I took notice immediately the door being open a crack. I narrowed my eyes. I observed the lock briefly. It was pick-locked, probably by the man that recently passed by. How troublesome. Mrs. Hudson is going to scold me later for this, but that wasn't of my mind at the moment. No, it was the faint trace of blood drops on the floorboards in front of the door. It was a bright crimson puddle and as I rotated to look behind me, I noticed a trail of the same crimson. A body?

I could feel a slight smile start curving my lips, but refrained from making it too obvious at the current moment. No, don't get side-tracked. You will miss something then. Shaking my head and organizing my thoughts so the important ones were accessible, I gently nudged the door forward, taking note on the speckles of crimson on the knob.

I didn't push open the door all the way since that would be rather precarious. Instead, it was only pressured maybe a few inches as I peered in. There was the same blood trail I had noticed earlier, but the drops were much heavier than before. They stopped when they opened this door, taking in their surroundings. From the brief examination, the cluttered mess was noted and they decided not to chance the piles of books and other items I have. The mark wasn't as large as the one outside thus meaning they didn't hesitate nearly as long, knowing they had a time constraint on them, that being my arrival.

When I pushed the door all the way open and trudged in, the scent hit me slightly.

I thinned my lips. It was only blood. Not rotting flesh or even a decomposing organ. It was a metallic scent, not a dead one. I did know the difference by now.

I walked around the corner of the doorway and froze.

On the floor, bleeding and cut up, was John. His arms were shredded and his chest... his chest was practically etched with malice. Ankles and wrists were greatly bruised, his wrists crusted with dried blood. His shirt was cut up down the middle, but stuck to his chest with his bleeding skin. He was pale as a ghost. I didn't even see his chest rise and fall.

Without thinking twice, I ran out the door. That was why the man was grinning. That was why he held that little bounce in his step! His purposeful nudge, his stiff assistant at his side, his utterly gleeful eyes. How could I be _stupid_, so _unobservant_! He held psychopath written all over his features and I sensed _nothing_, blinded by my own problems.

I was too late. By the time I walked out of the front door, all I could see was a black cab speeding off with nothing but a soft purr behind it. I knew it was worthless to trace the cabbie. Knowing the man, he planned this out fully and thoroughly. He wasn't going to let the cab live, unless that is, he is part of the mans group.

Groaning loudly, I tugged on my hair. I was _so close._ I could have him in my clutches right now, being interrogated by my own standards and repaying him for the damage he possibly caused. Had my older brother been here, he would be laughing at me, mocking me even. Knowing him, he probably already is. He probably saw the whole murder with his many eyes. By now, he definitely would have the name of the men that dissected John.

_John._

Dashing back inside and up the stairs, I take a swift left turn into the flat and right in front of John. I was out of breath slightly, but I still was able to notice the simple, more important facts. There was only one that appeared like a bright stop light. The little tinge of reality that realized his chest was not doing any sort of elevation. It was completely, utterly still.

_He isn't breathing_ I thought to myself. I felt the tinge of emotion enter my thoughts and briskly brushed it aside. No time. Certainly no time now if I need to save my new followers life.

I rushed to his side, fluttering my fingers to feel his pulse. His throat and his wrist. Both potential pulse signalers. Placing it on his wrist, I felt none. I could feel my throat constrict, but forced the emotion down. I have only known him for three days. No time to get emotional or to get to know him. No attachment should have been made. In fact, I shouldn't be acting as shaky as I feel right now. This is utterly ludicrous. I shouldn't be showing any emotion over a stranger.

Though this said stranger has made me realize a few things in 3 days that nobody else really has in years now that I consider the thought.

Leaning my head down to his chest, I heard nothing. Not a heart beat nor a soft thump. It was silent, but his chest was warm. His heart recently stopped no less than 10 minutes ago. He was trying to remain alive, but the blood-loss was what effectively caused his heart to cease it's involuntary movement. Feeling his fingertips, cold as if frost-bitten, I felt the theory being more solidly built. I need to cover these cuts before I try any sort of reviving or else he will bleed out once more.

Grumbling lowly, I pulled off my scarf and unraveled it from its twisted form. I used this to wrap the more serious injury of all of his torture: his chest. It was scratched all over the place, but I didn't understand the markings as I covered them tightly with my scarf. Using a shirt I had lying around (probably his old rags), I rip it into strips and securely fasten it around his arms. There. That should sustain until any sort of medics come.

I could feel the emotions come back slightly and I grimaced. It has been a while now since he has stilled and the chance of bringing him back is growing ever so slimmer as I fight with my internal relationship with my own heart and brain.

I push them back into a solid, steel door. No. Emotions stay back. Nobody wants you and if anybody did, it certainly was not me. What had I said to John earlier the first day we met? All lives are lost. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. My stupid older brother told me that a long time ago, and as much as I hate him, it's still relevant now. If I want to save him, I can't be caring or it will block the things I need to do.

With that, I lock the emotions in a tight steel room, throwing the key away in a dark well of all my purged information. Now to get onto the task at hand.

Placing my hands on John's chest, I almost cringed at the puckered skin under my skin, the muscle underneath. It was started to become brittle on the edges that were more exposed to air. It was only the parts that weren't covered by the scarf, but nonetheless, it wasn't the best feeling to be present on my pressuring finger tips. Yes, I wanted to recoil, but I didn't. I remained emotionless, a mask of certainty, as I pushed onto his chest in a consistent pattern.

_1... 2... 3..._

I leaned in to his chest and heard nothing. Feeling a light sheen of worry cross my features, I ignored it and tried again.

_1... 2... 3..._

Once again, not a sound. Stopping for only an instant, I go to my mind palace and pull out the book that explained CPR. This was certainly not the case since most require water, but an alteration can be made. I scanned the short pages I contained of the precaution before nodding. Mentally closing the book once I gathered the information, I go back to pressing on John's chest and after no sound once more, leaned in, using my bloodied fingers to pry open John's mouth. Tilting my head down, I took a deep breath and collided my lips to his, pushing the air into his lungs before moving away and pushing his chest again.

_1... 2... 3..._

I could hear loud footsteps coming up the stairs and was thankful when Lestrade appeared. He was out of breath and a manila file was in his clutches, the contents almost spilling to the carmine stippled floor. He smiled at me before gazing in horror at John's stilled body. The folder he was holding, slipped between his fingers and to the ground with a soft thump.

_1... 2... 3..._

"What happened?" He was looking at me but I shook my head vigorously.

"I haven't the slightest idea. I leave him alone for a few hours at most and upon reaching the flat I found him like this. I've been performing CPR for the past minute, but I can't get him to breath," I eyed him when he continued to stand there, dumbfounded. And he wonders why the rest of his poor excuse of a team can never get anything done when a obvious level 1 case is handed to them? _Bloody_ lot of idiots they all were, but I will restrain from using my breath on the reminder.

Instead, I decided to use the said wasted breath to remind the DI of his duties, well, of his partial ones,"Unless you plan to stand there while John dies, I'd advise you to start calling the ambulance. Standing there like a comatose imbecile will only prove in wasting this lovely metallic air we are currently making more potent as the time wears on. John's heart isn't beating and even if I do get it to perform such, I can't keep it that way without medical attention. I'm a high-functioning sociopath, Lestrade, not a medical specialist." I turned back to look at the stiffening, pale form of John Watson and continued to do the same repetitive movements. Never have I been so confident in saving a man's life, certainly not a man that has recently been brought to my attention like this one.

_1... 2... 3..._

I could sense the deer caught in headlights look on the inspectors face, but ignored it briefly. Hopefully he will understand what he has to do. I really would rather not waste my breathing on repeating myself. Breathing in itself was already boring enough.

Lestrade fumbled in his jacket before pulling out his phone and dialing the hospital. Good. He walked out of the room, probably to ignore the pitiful sight before him. His shuffling feet resounding through the halls and into my flat and, for the moment, I was glad that Mrs. Hudson was not home. Who knows what could have happened had she been here with the criminal at hand?

_1... 2... 3..._

I kept at the motions I was performing on John's chest as well as the mouth-to-mouth. My mouth was beginning to absorb the metallic taste of blood, _John's blood_, I reminded myself. He wasn't showing any signs of life, but I'm sure I was wearing most of it on my white button-up shirt and trousers. Thumb marks were printed into some of the less-dried patches of blood from my indentions of resuscitation. He was smothered in my attempts of bringing him back to life, but none of them actually did. Nonetheless, I was a stubborn man, unfaltering until taken away, and kept at the action. I was not deterred in the slightest.

1... 2... 3...

It paid off eventually.

After the eighth time (I silently kept count in my head, fully aware that after so many times it was pointless.), I heard him cough and moved away just in time for him to rotate his head to the side and vomit an abundant amount of blood onto the floor. Perhaps in any other situation I'd mock the doctor, but I knew this wasn't the time nor the place. As mentioned before, I didn't necessarily specialize in medics, but the amount of blood he managed to spew was not what he needed to give up at that moment judging the amount he _already lost_. At this point, a blood transfusion will be necessary and I doubt he will have any money to pay for such.

John's eyes looked over at me and squinted. They were still dead and lacking color, but I could see the faint traces of blue reaching into the orbs once more. I could feel the sigh of relief threaten to leave my lips, but I held it back with trained force.

"I... Sher... lock...?" After he mumbled those words, I saw the faint light become dimmer in his eyes. He was trying to stay focused, but he was losing the battle.

Reaching over, I placed my hands on either side of his face and brought it back to face my own. His eyes were distant and half-closed. I felt him flinch from my touch, but thought nothing of it. He was tortured, recoiling from contact was normal.

"John? Can you hear me?"

He stared at me... but he wasn't looking at me. I knew that look. I was told that I often got that look when I receded away. That look when I hid in the darkest corridors of my mind palace. I only knew John for three days, about to be four, but I knew I didn't want him being there.

"Are you all right?"

Again, no response. It was like he was a machine, except his parts were missing. He was still breathing, albeit faintly, but it looked like the mechanism to speak was gone. He mouthed words to me, trying to put sound behind them, but only mumbling silence. His mind was falling away from reality, where he got hurt, to his mind where it was safe.

Shaking him, I tried to get his attention. He only flinched in response and tensed up. He was easily startled I could tell, and he seems to be having a difficulty concentrating. I linked this to PTSD, or at least, a more severe form judging by his past in the army.

"Sherlock, the medics-" Lestrade paused when he saw John, breathing and eyes open,"John? Thank the stars- how are you mate? Can you move? Anything broken?"

The almost lifeless blue eyes slid over to Lestrade, mentally searching through the mental fog to remember him. This was not good for him. He was going to strain himself and if he stresses too much, his pulse will quicken, and if that occurs, more blood will be pumped through his raw veins. That will most certainly cause the blood loss to be the eternal death of him and no amount of CPR can bring him back from that.

I backed away from John's lying body. It was the body only, the casket. His mind was elsewhere, diminished.

"He isn't there. Well, he is, but he can't focus, at least not with his blurring mind hiding everything. Lestrade, what do you do when somebody loses focus? I rarely ever perform actions of such to take one out of that state, but I believe now calls for the sort does it not?"

Lestrade nodded, concern laced in his wrinkled features, "Try ice water, that normally does the trick."

I waved him off, "Already did that before, didn't work."

He stared at me, flabbergasted by my response, "when did you-!"

"That's besides the point Lestrade," I enforced, "What else is there?"

Grumbling incoherently, I saw him think it over for a moment too long for my comfort, "I wouldn't suggest this on him, considering his physical state and all, but maybe a punch, pinch, or a slap? Something strong and retaliating to his numbness. That will get rid of it."

I declined my head slightly in affirmation, "That should work. I suppose I will go from the least painful to the most, though I highly doubt he can tell the difference at the moment."

His body was lying there, almost like dead weight. I knew this was going to do nothing, but if I didn't try, Lestrade would probably make me go to a case with Anderson for my ignorance. That, and I suppose the less painful method _could_ work. Under normal circumstances, I suppose not, but this isn't a normal circumstance and John Watson certainly was not an ordinary man from the things and people he has seen.

The pinch didn't work. Looking up at Lestrade, I saw him nibbling on his bottom lip. He was caught in a difficult decision. He didn't know whether to wait for the medics to help John, or to let me to as I was about to, "Are you sure Sherlock? I mean, whoever the bloke was that did it to him was, he did leave a number on the man. Would punching him, or even hitting him, help him? He already flinches from what I saw. PTSD?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes at his petty worries, "Oh please Lestrade. He already has PTSD. In fact, it is one of the minor reasons he doesn't return home. The frown lines in his face, the minor trembling when his Afghanistan days were brought up, and the way his voice significantly faltered indicates such. He didn't leave the war zone unscathed, as little to none do. Now, Lestrade, is that all you are worried about? I would like to know before I try to _help_ John as I so assure you I am trying to do."

His mouth popped open like a codfish for a moment before closing, amazement being hidden behind slight annoyance and the same worry, "No. That was all. Just... just don't frighten him too much Sherlock. He isn't like you."

I frowned, "I know that."

He tilted his head to the side, "Do you?"

Glaring, I nodded, "Yes. I do. Is that all?"

Lestrade eyed me for a moment before giving a faint nod of his own, "Yes. The medics should be here any minute now so you don't have a lot of time."

I expected him to leave, but he stood there as if he was a parent watching over his troublemaker son. How annoying.

Nonetheless, I raised my arm to where my hand was perhaps a foot away in distance from the side of John's face. Without blinking, I slapped him, feeling the familiar red sting on my palms and finger tips as they made contact with his flesh.

At first, there was nothing, but slowly, I saw recognition fill John's face and the tension in the air lightened from its previous state.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" He slurred.

The man chuckled, "You can just call me Greg, mate. How are you feeling?"

John grimaced, "Like I have been thrown in the middle of London traffic and ran over during lunch hour, but nothing worse than I have felt before." I could tell from the vacant look in John's eyes that he was still far away, a boat tied to a dock on a single thread. His body was on "red alert", even in my arms, and I could feel some irritability seep through his words as he spoke to the rhetorical question. This only added to my file of post-traumatic stress disorder for the doctor. Of course Lestrade didn't notice it.

Lestrade nodded understandably, but I was not satisfied.

"Who took you?" I asked.

"What?" Lack of concentration, detachment, more facts. I observed this quietly, compiling the list.

"Who kidnapped you, John?" I could feel my patience wearing thin, but kept the facade up. He just woke up, in a sense, he was still slow.

"I... I can't remember. I don't think he ever mentioned his name... He just spoke to me... He had a man with him, a man with a knife. Bloody sharp that thing was, but he was a determined bloke," he pondered something in his head for a moment before realization hit, "Ah. Sherlock, check my right pocket will you? I... can't seem to do it myself with the amount of blood loss I have sustained, but there should be an envelope for you. He slipped it in before I went unconscious."

I did as instructed, quietly noting his inability to remember the most important aspects of his trauma, and pulled out a perfectly white, crisp letter. It was not even speckled in red. It was heavy and judging by the form and the way my fingers ran over every contour, it was a phone. I mentally weighed the phone, running my fingers to push its surface in every which direction. It slid slightly to a keyboard and due to the fact that the certain letters were pressed more than others, it was Johns. Nodding to myself, I ignored the questioning look of Lestrade and John as I observed the letter in its entirety. The writing indicates a fine-point pen, probably one of the more high-end style. Asian-origins. The letter was nothing more than something you can buy at your local markets. How dull. The culprit could have at least made this more interesting than it was.

"Sherlock?"

"Shush John. You shouldn't be speaking if I am correct. That would only speed up your blood flow with the stress and your condition certainly does not call for that," I saw John pout with a glare at me as he knew I was correct, "Besides, the doctors are already here."

"Wha-!" He tried to raise his voice, but it only got above a whisper just barely, refusing an further. He decided to cease and tried to focus, enforcing a glare at me. I waved him off and stood, pointedly looking at the door as four medics walked in, their hospital rags distasteful and utterly pointing to their specialty as EMT's.

"Don't bother looking for any injuries doctors. I can easily list them off. To begin, his ribs are broken, probably three or four of the true ribs to be exact, along with the left leg. His ankle is sprained and he has several lacerations along his arms and chest that need instantaneous medical attention compared to the improvisational handiwork I did," as the doctors stared like carp at my list of injuries, I turned to Lestrade, a smirk laced through my features.

I was about to speak to him when I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve. Turning to the left of me, I noticed John already in a gurney, being lifted away to the ambulance in stand-by outside. That was fairly quick for complete fools, but the praise didn't last long as I noticed the way John flinched in pain at the stiff, careless movements they made. They didn't trust my judgment. What a shame. The ride for John Watson to the hospital was going to be a painful one, he might be slightly unconscious once he gets there with the amount of blood he will certainly lose.

"Yes John? What is it?" I murmured, observing as his eyes focused and unfocused constantly.

"I... Please, find whomever this twisted psychopath was. I know for a fact you can do it, that is, if you haven't already."

My smirk broadened at his praise, "Oh? Actually, I haven't deducted much yet with you injured and nearly dead. It would be helpful with a name though you know considering I could then ask for some... unwanted guidance in this." The ending of my response with full of resentment and a lacking of depreciation. I would hate to deal with him, especially now, since he would be unbearably difficult to understand with him just being released temporarily from work. How miserable.

John's eyebrows furrowed, "Stop thinking Sherlock. I can just _tell_ when your mind is on a roll and it's giving me a headache," my eyebrows rose but he continued, "But... his name... I.. believe it was.. s-something like..."

At that moment, the paramedics began to take John away and I was left there hanging on his word. Without a moments hesitation, I began following John's side. I took hold of one of the side railings of the gurney, the other hand moving recklessly at my side in the pending curiosity and excitement that ran through my veins.

"Sir, we have to take him to the hospital, he's losing consciousness," one interjected.

"He would be more coherent if he wasn't losing as much blood with your precarious lot," I replied harshly before turning to John, "His name? John, I need his name!"

"His name..." John mumbled, stare becoming half-lidded. No. No no no. I _have_ to know.

"Sir..." another warned as we reached the blinking lights of the ambulance. The other two paramedics were giving me the same glare, but I ignored them.

"John..." I murmured next to him, staring at him intensely but knowing he wasn't seeing any of it.

"M...Moriarty. It was Moriarty."

_Moriarty._

Mentally flipping through my library of people and criminals, I pulled out Moriarty's folder. Ah, he was the supposed man in charge of miss Alice's murder... interesting.

"Thank you John," I whispered as I let him go. Within the next five seconds, he was in the ambulance and off the St. Bart's Hospital.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the white envelope once more. The edges were slightly crinkled where the pocket was too small to fit it, but that wasn't of my adamant concern. No, I was far more curious as to what was inside the envelope than the carrier in which it was presented. I carefully took a hold of the edge of the envelope, hooking my index finger in to gradually rip it open. Once done so, I turned the envelope upside down and watched as a small phone fell into my palms. It was John's phone, but that wasn't what caught my attention. It was the image that was presented on the phone itself.

Even though the phone's screen was small, I was still able to take notice in the minuscule details. First of all, the image adduced that it a carefully drawn image of the outline of an apple. Inside the said apple, was a word that spelled out "I O U". Due to the condensation in the vehicle, it was done and created today in the shelter of a warm vehicle, probably to pass time. The thickness of the lines point to a male, probably early thirties to late. He is precise and takes care in planning judging by his meticulous lines and accuracy to the words and figure. The image is too big for this phone so it was taken on another one, probably his or his accomplices.

A smile broke on my face for a moment before receding back to a bored facade. This man is clever, so very clever, but he is also mischievous. He enjoys torment and provoking and even an idiot could tell that is point of interest was on me. How intriguing.

I heard Lestrade's heavy footsteps hit the pavement behind me and I turned, a bright smile on my lips. It wasn't a happy smile, more like a intrigued one, one that was ready to go catch a fish that was swimming in a pond for far too long.

"What is with that smile of yours Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned slightly though the light prick of curiosity overwhelmed the annoyance of the maturity of my smile.

"I... need to go consult myself with a few sources. I believe I know who this supposed criminal is," I began to walk when a hand landed on my arm, hot and sweaty - Nervous, adrenaline rush probably, annoyed, slightly angered, worried, concerned.

"What about John? He is your friend isn't he?"

"I don't have _friends_," I scoffed, retrieving my arm.

Lestrade eyed me briefly, a flicker of hurt, before he spoke once more, "Well, he will probably be as close to one as you may get mate. Are you going to the hospital to wait for him to get better or won't you?"

I could sense that there was no right answer and that in its right annoyed me terribly, "I... I can't go see him Lestrade. If I were to go to him like a lost puppy awaiting for his master to wake up, in which I will not, then this case will be left to your incompetent excuse of a Yard and that would only serve in letting the criminal escape. Now, unless you want John to worry constantly over whether the slayer was behind his back every second of every waking hour of his life, let me do what I am best at. I will go find this man and if... no, when I do, I will make sure he knows what John is going through."

The man that stood before me shook his head and smiled slightly, "You never do change do you? Whatever. Go chase that bloody psychopath and do John some justice, eh? I suppose you want me to watch over him?"

I nodded, "At least you caught on to something. Also," I smirked as I saw him peer at me, his hand half raised to hail a cab, "It takes a 'psychopath' to know one."

* * *

_Once again, I apologize for the choppiness and utterly terribly quality of this chapter. My mind was seeing doubles half the time so I was trying to work through my fever and everything because I'm a stubborn child who can't sit still or sleep peacefully like every other bloody child during sickness. No, I did the opposite and I suppose the turn out was this, and some highlighter-blacklight drawings on my wall._

_I apologize for any OOC in this... I will make the next chapter better, I promise! _

_But, oh my God. I enjoy writing the...well, actually there is no point in calling it the Unknown POV since you readers have probably deducted that it was Moriarty. Nonetheless, he is so much fun to write! I had the best time and the most giggles writing his and it was thanks to his little insert at the beginning that I even got started on this. God, I love him haha~_

_Oh, next chapter? Expect this week for sure. I have half of it typed already and I will give you a hint as to how changed John will be after this. Severe PTSD. That kind of hints as too just how bad the torture was without resorting to... that. Anyways, I have researched the topic a lot, too much honestly, enough for a lifetime, but I've been taking my time writing his POV so it somewhat fits the bill without making him appear depressed or suicidal. I will not write a suicide until a certain part you guys... Writing those are the hardest for me to do because my best friend committed it and I could never write it the same afterward._

_That's it! Thank you for reading! Review/critique with whatever you wish._

_Ciao~_


	8. Chapter 8

_First of all, let me say, yet again, that I apologize for my hiatus. I know that I personally go mad over amazing fanfics that have not been updated in weeks for a time so doing such is practically absurd. Of course, that isn't to say this is a good fanfiction, because it isn't._

_Now for another assertion before I leave you lovely readers to view this obscured jumble of characters that probably mangle the English language. I am not proud of this chapter. It is my longest with 11500 words without this intro, but I do not like how it flows. It seems rushed to be honest and I am tempted to throw it in my recycling bin. Thanks to my "John", that didn't happen. Apparently this chapter holds something that is likable though I cannot fathom what._

_Oh! I should have the St. Patrick's Day (belated by a lot) finally up tomorrow.. er, today. It just turned midnight where I live, but expect it today perhaps after 5 pm in my time since I have school and all that nonsensical rubbish._

_Without further ramblings, I leave you to read this. I again apologize for the sloppiness of this chapter. It was written on my phone when Spring Break was being a pain in the arse to be truthful. The next chapter will be better I promise. Let's hope I can keep this one._

_Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock because if I did, Johnlock would be canon; the end._

* * *

**John**  
_God I hate this._

When I opened my eyes, I knew what I was going to see. I have been in enough accidents, survived enough, to know that I was going to be in a hospital room. The walls would be bleached white and the tile the same ugly color. A window would be next to me, probably on the left since that was the usual spot, and it would be either shining light or droning on darkness, depending on the time of day. My sheets below me would crinkle from the paper thin matting they used and the hospital gown they strapped on me would start to itch unbearably. I sensed that my heart beat would rise considerably from the sensory overload before falling back to normal standards.

The faint beeping beside me only confirmed the understanding of my situation. The extended veins attached to my arms and body began to tug mercilessly as I began to stir. As the tugging seemed to prove no effect on my event, I decided to stop, lying still on the uncomfortable mat below me.

I tried to think of what happened, what had caused me to enter this cursed place, but every time I tried to recover the memory, I could feel my consciousness recede to darkness; not that I blame it of course. I... didn't want to remember that. I have withstood much in the war... but that was something different, more profound in terms of abdicating my rights of control.

I still shouldn't have been affected by the torture so. I shouldn't have. I could feel the chuckle, humorless and hollow, filter through my throat, but it never escaped my lips. No, those remained sealed as I slowly fell back to my mind.

When Sherlock first arose me from my darkened slumber, I thought my mind was the safest place for me. It was away from the reality that hurt me, and scarred me, more than the war I endured. I was wrong though, terribly so. My mind was not a sound one, far from it in fact. It wasn't my utopia, no, it was my prison. It ridiculed my actions and decisions. When I had cried and screamed from the torture, it called me weak. When I finally broke from the torture and was nothing more than a husk for a few minutes, it told me that I was to blame. If I had been stronger than I would have been able to go through all of this with a stoic face...and it was right.

I could hear my heart beat rise abruptly at the thought of my trauma and that ultimately was what brought me out of my haze, the annoying beeping. I probably should have been groaning, showing some signs of life, but to be honest, I didn't know which life I'd rather be in. The enduring life of reminders or the eternity of prolonging echoes and broken reflections that only I can see.

I realized quickly that I needed to discover this quickly, whether I should hide the effects of the torture or whether I should make it known. It didn't take long for me to discover the less painful choice, at least, less painful for others.

I will have to hide this and act like nothing happened. I will have to place yet another mask of certain health like I did when I returned from Afghanistan. I sighed quietly to the hospital room, exhausted despite the amount of sleep I have probably gotten from the antibiotics.

I hate hospitals. Despite being a doctor and being raised around such, I hate these. They smell of antibiotics and hand soap that has been scrubbed too thoroughly into every crevice and corridor. The water would hold a metallic taste and the food... not even counted as such considering we were all bloody doctors and not some cooking masters from Paris. This is going to be horrible.

Hopefully, it wouldn't get any worse.

Ha, yeah right. Since when am I ever that lucky?

I opened my eyes and felt the light bore down into the orbs immediately. Hissing at the painful impact, I closed them and turned my head to avoid direct contact again. That was stupid, revealing my eyes to the dreadful light so quickly. Ugh, don't do that again, definitely not. It wasn't as bad as a hangover, but fairly close.

After the pulsing in my head and eyes receded considerably, I peeked my eyes open slightly, noticing first hand that a man was sitting in a chair farthest from my bed. My eyes widened a little more as I took in his form. My body went into red alert immediately and it took all my willpower to stop it.

He was formal. A tailored suit that covered his figure and hid it as well. He had an umbrella to his side though one of his hands rested on its handle, every so often rubbing his thumb over the metal curvature. He held no expression to my hazy knowledge, but I could just imagine the gears in his head churning constantly. He would have just been another annoying stranger, but I began to notice a few straggling facts shooting into the fog known as my mind. His eyes followed me with the same observing eyes that I recognized immediately. As soon as I noticed that, I realized a few other resemblances. The smirk that played across his lips, the way his eyes narrowed as they discovered something they liked, the constant glare that just shouted I-Am-Smarter-Than-All-Of-You-By-Far, it was all there. I could see his smirk turning into more of a distinguished grin as he saw that I realized this.

"Ah, doctor Watson, I suppose you have come to realize who I am, or at least, whom I resemble in your taste?" His voice was like satin-smooth and never tripping over a single syllable. Every word was well versed and left you hanging. I could feel my eyes narrow. I never liked those with a sly tongue, always got me or others in trouble eventually. I could just sense that he was of no exception. Just another bloke that would threaten me, or at least, make me rather uncomfortable or depressed.

"Oh please. I'm certainly not here to cause any more harm to you. I'm merely here to offer you a... preposition I suppose you could say. Would you care to listen?"

He didn't give me a chance to reply and I didn't give a care to answer. He held that idiosyncrasy as well, not caring what you said because what he said was utterly final and that was that.

"I would assume that you are under the wing of a certain... individual? A Sherlock Holmes?"

I nodded slowly, "Yes..." I didn't like him at all, just the way he eyed me like I was a mysterious experiment he wanted to dissect to every nerve and cell. I could feel my breathing slightly speed up as I remembered the same glint on the inflicter of my trauma and closed my eyes briefly, stabilizing my breaths to strained amounts. I did not want the man to know of my symptoms. He was the last man right now.

He eyed my struggle with amusement and a raised brow as he continued to speak, his satin smooth voice turning over to feel rough in my ears.

"Why is that John? Do you think that a man like him can relinquish you of your sins? The same ones that you committed in Afghanistan?"

I felt my teeth clenched, "How do you know about Afghanistan?"

A smirk, "I have my sources, but that is besides the point. Since I can't contact you otherwise, this will be the only time I will be able to speak to you currently. I am a busy man with my work."

"I really don't know you," I spoke slowly, watching him, "So why should you want to contact me in the first place? I have known you for merely a minute or two and I already don't want to converse with you anymore."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed at me like it was obvious, "I suppose I can blame the medication for your lack of brain movement at this time, but then again, you are rather plain so I can also disfavor the fact of your boring mind. Nonetheless, I can spare a quip to help you along," he paused for a moment to let it sink in before continuing, "You are in associations with Sherlock Holmes. You can't lie to me John. I have eyes all over London I presume one could say. Even so, one must learn to be discreet when trying to avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes. Since he is about, chasing the same individual that I wanted him to capture years ago, it appears that a window has opened, hence this visit."

I chuckled humorlessly, falling on my back once more and staring at the ceiling, "Oh lucky me." I could feel my pretense falling back into place and sighed as my personality came easy to me. About damn time.

"I fail to find the humor in this situation," he murmured, a little miffed, before pulling back his calculating facade, "You... don't appear very frightened of me. Ah, it's your expertise as a soldier, a occupation that poised bravery as a opposition to fear. Bravery, yet another word for foolishness."

My lips tightened into a thin line as I heard this, "No, it's not that."

I saw him smile at me with a response of the repetitive deduction ready on his lips when I interjected, "No, it has nothing to do with me being a soldier, though that is certainly part of it. You just are not that frightening of a man I'm afraid. Quite the opposite. You just seem to hold power on your shoulders that I don't care for."

The man leaned back, his eyes widened a little in curiosity, "Interesting. No wonder Sherlock has taken a liking to you," he thumped his umbrella handle once, as if he remembered something, "Oh, that brings me back to the topic at hand. What is your connection to Sherlock?"

I blinked slowly, observing the contours in the ceiling. I just wanted him to leave, perhaps being vague was the best way to go, "I don't have one. I have only known the man for all but three days. The only actual connection I have is that he saved my life and I owe him. Besides, if you have eyes all over this bloody place, should you not even have to ask me in the first place?"

"Ah, yes, I'm so glad you took note of that. Keep that in mind for your future associations Dr. Watson. As for your connection, from what I have heard, you are already planning on moving into the flat with him, actually, you already did so on the very first night of meeting him. You are already accompanying him to one of his soon to be many crime scenes as well."

"What are you inferring?" I spoke begrudging.

"Oh, nothing. Nothing in the slightest. Minor curiosity I assure."

"You don't seem the type to idly poke for fun in business that you don't belong in. Who are you anyways?"

I saw a proud, but sad smile go through his features, "The closest relationship to a friend that Sherlock could possibly have. "

"And what is that?" I wanted to ask for his name. In all actuality, one like me should have asked for his name, but the little slight mess up of emotion threw me for a loop. Curiosity was going to be the death of me I swear. It almost was the death of me earlier in fact. Another shiver ran violently through my body and I clenched my teeth. The reminders were going to haunt me like a sciamachy, only visible to me in thick shadows.

I was losing my concentration. Shaking my head vigorously, I turn my head to squint at the gentleman that was currently testing my nerves.

He looked up, "An enemy. In his mind, probably his arch-enemy. His theatrics never cease to amuse me."

I rolled my eyes, blinking as the movement caused tears to appear from lack of use, "Arch-enemy? Do those even exist now?"

"Off-topic John," he chided, "You're asking the wrong questions. You should be asking as to what my earlier preposition was."

"Oh, I thought that was whether I should listen to your irritable voice drone on and on on a man that I barely know myself. If not, then do tell because I am so interested."

He frowned at me, "Sarcasm is not a good look on you John."

"Does it look as if I care? What is your silly preposition anyways?" A headache was beginning to bloom behind my eyes from the overwhelming thinking and light filtering through my room along with the annoying beeping besides me. Was there any way I could get them to cut that off? As the stress of the situation took hand, I could feel faint thoughts painting its way across my canvas-like mind in detail. It took only a small amount of power to hold them back... but I could still feel the remnants leaking through like floating scars.

The annoying gentleman looked as if he was having the same issue as I with the headaches, though he did well to hide it. I, on the other hand, felt no need to.

A sigh, "Do you plan to associate with Sherlock Holmes any further? If so, how long can I piece this together for?"

"I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business."

A smirk that all but screamed power, "It could be."

With a look of my own, I blink before replying, "It really couldn't."

His lips went thin fairly quickly at my response, eyes narrowing as well. Standing up, I saw him pull out a slip from behind his coat (a inner pocket perhaps?) and gently place it on the end table beside me, "I want you to keep an eye on him, this should cover for your medical expenses as well might I add. I'm sure you lack the funds being sent home with no money or honor Dr. Watson."

I didn't even glance at the paper, but at the man himself, words failing me for a second before trailing back slowly, "Why should I tell you anything about Sherlock? I don't even know who you are."

He cocked his head to the side, a glimmer of aptitude in his eyes as he read my expression, "You are an army doctor, or would it be more appropriate to say was? Nonetheless, you know to not trust others, in fact, your file says itself that you have trust issues. Why is it that of all people to become intimate with, your trust runs to the man that most run away from?"

I was speechless and he took advantage of that, "When others see him, hear him, they assume he is a psychopath, a man who is bound to snap eventually and prefer to avoid him at all costs. Single him out they do as their petty little minds observe the man they can't even begin to comprehend. You, on the other hand, are different. You don't see a mind that could hold dangers at all. You see a man that is different, brilliant even, but you also observe the dangerous streak in knowing him. When you see him, you see a battlefield littered with the bloodied bullets of the supposed innocent men, oh... but you have already seen that have you?" A smirk played across his lips.

"With that said, please do learn that associating with the wrong reflection in a room full of mirrors can only lead to the shattering of yourself. Judging by your mental capacity and the trauma you have led, and received, I can tell that you have already dealt with a few."

At this point, no words would leave me. My throat was constricted, my heart beating as I heard his deduction. It wasn't like Sherlock's at all. His held meaning, intentions, that compared to Sherlock's, were more like precise puncture wounds to a dull spoon. They were made to remind, not to dulcify, and to leave you utterly taciturn, unable to respond. My mind faintly plucked out the memory of this state mirroring when I was sent away from my family and I brushed it aside viciously. No time for reminiscing, especially in the eyes of this man.

"I... I will not."

A raised eyebrow, "Hm?"

"I will not help you with Sherlock," I clarified further, my mind still trying to organize itself.

"You are very loyal, very quickly."

I could feel my eyes avert to the door that I wanted him to leave so desperately, "No I'm not... I'm just not interested. Why do you wish to know of his whereabouts anyways?"

I saw Mycroft pick up his umbrella, leaning on it in a pose that I would soon grow to hate, "I worry about him... constantly."

I didn't get to utter any further words of curiosity when he did the action I wanted him to do when I first heard him speak. Of course now I didn't want him to walk out of that door. I wanted to see what he meant, why he was worried, but of course I knew that I had no say or impact in this man. He was going to leave without a say on my part.

He was about to leave the quarters when his face turned to me, a shadow outlining the more receded parts of his facial structure, "Time to choose a side Dr. Watson. I hope your injuries help you in that decision. Oh... also, please do speak up next time a little louder. I could barely hear your voice. A more severe case of the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder you misdiagnosed?" With that, the door shut behind him silently, the aura of a grinning cat wafting in the air at my stuttered thought processes.

Swearing under my breath, I finally let my facade fall briefly, revealing a terrified man. A man that has seen much, witnessed more, and still hasn't grown used to it. Thank God I was used to hiding it, to faking it, otherwise I'm sure I would have been placed in an asylum sooner or later. I could feel memories peering through my rambling thoughts, pulling out bits and pieces of my reflection staring back at me. My face was emotionless, blank as it stared back at me. It's eyes were blue, but it wasn't the vivid azure that I grew with, no, it was a dead blue that was losing color or any gradation of life. Lips were thin and chapped to shreds that coincided with the dark shadows, representing all the sleepless nights I had endured. This was all inside my head, but I knew as I stared at my past picture, it was what I appeared at this moment. My palace was in a chaotic turmoil that doused any sort of reason from touching the surface. A blank wall splattered with pointless information along with the important parts, merging to create nonsense that not even Sherlock could organize.

Moving my fingers, I gently lift my arm, the one that ached the most. It was painted in stitches, crossing threads that patterned around my upper arm. The lower arm wasn't much better. The mid-arm was cradled with tubes that circulated blood. In and out.

A sigh escaped my lips as I realized what it was, settling down my fluttering heart. God, the littlest of things were bothering me now. It's almost worse than before. I don't even know why it got so worked up over such a small (then again, perhaps small wasn't the right term) detail. It was only a blood transfusion... I mean, I did lose a lot of...

_Blood._

_There was so much. Crimson adoring not only my open skin but my aggressors blade as well. The dark room hid almost everything, but I could still feel when the blade was near by how it dripped my own blood back on my stiff face. I couldn't open my eyes now, finding it no use at the moment. What was I going to see exactly? Nothing but shadows that hung hungrily on every drop of my life._

_What should have been a sigh escaped my lungs in a groan. That was a bad move. Another slash soon grazed my cheek, shallow, a warning. My guard was down though, albeit briefly, and it was enough to ensue what he promised. I could just feel the grin as he sent another laceration along my stomach, the muscles recoiling shakily from the pain. My breath hitched for a moment, but I made sure no noise left this time. Noise only pursued the onslaught._

_My breath caught as I held in every minuscule noise my mouth wanted to make to emphasize the pain I was going through. No. I will not give the food for more. I must last long enough for..._

_For who? Who was going to save me in all actuality? I had no family to worry for my health, save perhaps Harry, and I had no friends. I'm not even sure what Sherlock was exactly. He wasn't an acquaintance, but he wasn't a friend either. A comrade? A potential co-worker-thing? I honestly have no idea how to categorize his amazing mind and this hazy fog drafting its way into my head wasn't helping in the slightest. I shouldn't be thinking too much into this. It wasn't what I need to be thinking. _

_A small voice in the back of my mind whispered that perhaps, just maybe, Sherlock would find that I was abducted, but I sliced the thought in half immediately._

_I didn't leave exactly on a good note, punching him in the nose. _

_I held back the chuckle that wanted to leave my throat. I don't regret punching his nose at all, the bloody twat deserved it, but is this some twisted version of karma? An eye for an eye, a nose for a nose? If so, then my punishment hasn't come yet. So far every other injury, blood wise, occurred, but nothing to my beautiful fucking face. _

Crack!

_I could feel the pain brushing across my nose and my face scrunched up, okay never mind._

_"What are you smiling at John Watson? I don't think this is exactly a happy matter, you know. At least, not for most people," the man next to me spoke next to my ear. _

_God do I hate this man with a passion. If I wasn't tied up, and with no means of escape with the given factor that my arms were currently useless, I would have this man knocked out well into next week. _

_Metal grazed along the roof of my mouth as well as my lead tongue, "Well, I'm not most people exactly..." another lash for my cheek just for responding, "...ow... but I know for a fact that somebody will find me."_

_The man stopped the blade a centimeter from my chest and I could feel the faint hesitation leaking through his moments. After a while, dark chuckles escaped by the tell-tale signs of the blade bouncing off my chest in his guffaws, "Oh? And who would that be Dr. Watson? Sherlock Holmes? He doesn't even know you were abducted nonetheless the fact that you are here."_

_He was right, damn him he was, but how did he know I thought of Sherlock Holmes. Wait, actually, why did my mind go straight to Sherlock when I mentioned that earlier? I'm not even close to the detective, but still, my mind drifted to him. Ugh, I must be losing it. No way was Sherlock going to save me, if anybody._

_After no reply was given on my part, the slicer resumed his little sword dance, dissecting parts of my body where ever necessary but never breaking the skin farther than an inch. It was enough to make me feel it, to make itself known, but nothing further than a blood mark that would remind my later. That is, if I was even alive later. Who knows at this point._

_I knew it was only a matter of time before my lights went out, before I succumbed to the scythe death was holding over me, but I wasn't giving in that easily. That's what I kept telling myself. The chant resounded in my mind, but these words were nothing to Morpheus's spell that started the shave the edges of my mental processes. I wanted to groan and punch a wall as the edges fell to sleep; I knew that this was going to make me vulnerable and I would regret it._

_I didn't realize it would be so soon._

_A quick pierce to my cheek caused my breath to hitch and a silent whimper erupted from my lungs. Fuck, here it comes. Now I was going to get it and all my bravery would be sent out of the window. Next was going to be reason and at last, credibility. When that occurs, I will be sent back to being a child and at that point, anything he did or said to me would be believable in my mind. He could tell me I was bloody Father Christmas and I would find his lie flawless. If he told me I murdered a man and this was my punishment, my mind would find no aberration in the saying._

_Still, I had to remain strong. As the seconds ticked by with more vicious marks, those stiff walls were crumbling. I was trying to not let my guard down, but it was only a matter of time._

_Lacerations decorated my evolving corpse by this point; that much I was certain. I didn't know what they were, or even if they were anything, but the stinging of stale air hitting the exposed skin assured me that they were deep. Or were they? Maybe they were scrapes. I don't even know. They hurt. That's all that matters. They hurt and I can't reach over and hide them from sight and contact._

_Great. Their went some of my reasoning. I only had maybe a few minutes before the rest was gone and knowing this man, this monster, I was going to suffer a lot more than mere minutes. _

_Losing. I was losing this battle right now. There was no way I could win this, not without traumatizing my head I suppose. Compared to the wars, this was nothing. I've seen men die literally right in front of me. I have withstood torture to the limitations of any man. I was perfectly fine physically, but I knew this was not all he was known for. No, if that was it, this man, Moriarty, would have ditched him long ago. _

_It was only a matter of time before he started torturing me differently._

_Mentally._

Blinking, I realized I had tears falling from my eyes and tried to rub them away. What was that? A flashback? I was only about to mutter a single word and I was sent along a darkened path, spiraling to memories. My head throbbed in tune with my heart beat, but I refrained from addressing medication for the symptom. It would go away soon if I stop trying to think of what happened. I didn't want to think of it either, so that made the action all the more simpler to perform.

My medical lucidity took a hold of this case in its own perspective, analyzing my mental injuries. I tried to rationalize the symptoms that made itself know, but could feel my heart drop when my mental diagnosis tallied up all the symptoms it had recorded on consciousness. I knew what it could be, what the only possibility could be, but denial was in my bones and it would remain thick as long as I remained. Certainly I was wrong. The doctor in my head screamed otherwise and pointed out in glares at my ignorant shadow.

They all pointed to the one thing I was certain I would never ever have. The mere thought proved to be a bitter pill to swallow on its own.

_Wait. _

Ceasing my rambling thoughts and disastrous mumblings, I felt hope spring temporarily. The doctor. The doctor, the official one. I'm in shock so maybe I'm not thinking straight. Perhaps I am just thinking wrong. Yeah, that has to be it. I'll just wait for the doctor. He (or she) can assure me that I am just disoriented, that I am utterly fine.

Apparently I didn't have too long to wait.

A few seconds of trying to recede the flaring up of my thoughts, faint voices that were not mine made its way through. It was like a fishing rod as I was efficiently pulled out of the water with ease at the more sane interest.

Looking up from my fingers, picking at the skin under my nails in nervous ambition, I cocked my head at the voices I heard. It was muffled at first but as the minute wore on, they became more clear. Two voices. One angry, one calm and reassuring. I recognized the angry one as Lestrade's and smiled slightly before feeling it drop. I couldn't keep it up; too much energy.

"Just give me a few minutes with the mate. He is probably confused and you coming in will only worsen things."

"I'm sorry, but I'm sure he is old enough to hear this right now," the doctor spoke sternly, "You do not need to be there. He is also a doctor, as I have come to understand, so I find no necessity in you having to be of attention during the hearing."

"Are you hearing yourself? He was bloody tortured and considering what I offered to do to help him back, I believe I have full right to be there. At least I know him where as you don't. Tell me, who will frighten him more? You are your... doctor looks or me with a reassuring face and an actual smile?"

The doctor was getting angry, "And we are fully grateful for your donation considering our uncharacteristic lack of supplies, but we can't allow you in there. You are not on his family list in the slightest."

"I don't need to be on that roster to see him. I believe that it is visitors hours so why should I not see a friend? Am I restricted from such? Just let me through to see the mate. That is all I am asking."

The doctor sighed, resigned, "And who are you Mr. Lestrade? To him at least."

There was a pause before the door opened, "A friend."

In the moment the doctor and he had been talking, I had been preparing myself. My body functions were threatening override at this point and I knew that would result in total detachment. Even if the thought of no pain was more refreshing than the other option, I wasn't going to be selfish. No, not for Lestrade who obviously had a role in my life saving. I owe him, almost as much as I owe Sherlock at this moment.

Raising my eyes to the DI's, I visibly saw him go through a wave of relief as he made contact. A smile broke out almost immediately and I found myself doing the same. His smiles are infectious. They remind me of this woman I met on the streets once, a Fria Dubois, but that is for remembering later. I can't afford to reminisce now, not when Lestrade is already eying me like a time bomb mere seconds from going off.

The older man walked over to where I currently laid, one hand in his coat pocket and the other idly running through his hair or just twitching at his side.

"Hey mate, how are you doing?" He asked as he sat in the chair next to my cot. He removed a pad and pen from his inside pockets, laying them down silently on the end table.

My voice was still small, almost hushed, but I made effort to put more volume into it and that effort didn't go unnoticed to the inspector, "Didn't I already answer this before?"

He laughed, worry evident in his eyes. Great, he caught on to my defects. Now he wasn't going to leave for a longer amount of time, not that I wanted him to leave anyways. Just the mere thought of that happening was enough for my heart to race, another sign that wasn't missed by the DI. Dammit. "Yeah, I suppose you did but that was back when I wasn't sure if you were going to live you know? How are you right now is what I meant."

Leaning back on the pillow, I let a sigh escape, the breath of a man that tasted death and didn't enjoy the after taste it waived, "Like utter shit to be honest. My entire body aches, I have tubes protruding from various parts of me, and my mind won't shut up. So yeah, pretty bloody awful." Despite all of the irritants, I smiled at the older man next to me; an action to break the ice.

It worked.

Soon after I did so, Lestrade smiled back and I could see some of the worry leave his eyes and body. About time.

Lestrade whistled, "Well, you did go through a hell of a lot mate. If I remember correctly, your arms, stomach, and legs were scratched to pieces. You have a concussion, broken nose, sprained ankle, and a broken wrist on your right. I would say you went through hell and back, but I think you have dealt with worse," he chuckled lightly, trying to dissipate the heavy atmosphere, "As for the mind, can't help you there. I think that is just being around Sherlock too much in all honesty. I swear, he can make anybody mental."

More laughter escaped my lungs in brief, breathy exhales. It was nice to laugh, to not hide much, but it did not happen without a backfire.

A sharp stab aimed itself at my abdomen, immediately causing a blossom of pain and transforming the nice laughter into a heavy, long-lasting groan. It was horrible and didn't cease as my laughter did, spiraling up to make me almost want to hurl. It took all my will to not curl in upon myself. Damn it all. It definitely didn't help that the lovely atmosphere we had before was practically ruined thanks to this fit.

Lestrade was there almost immediately, God bless him for his worry but it was starting to get a tad annoying, especially when I was trying to dismiss it, "You okay? I can call the doctor if-"

I shook my head, "No. Don't. Can't stand them to be truthful."

"But are you-"

"A doctor?" I finished, "Yeah, but for some reason, doctors caring for doctors never work out. It's like a dog marking territory and all that drama," I shook my head, "Let's just say that if a doctor were to come in to tell another doctor of the same titles that he had cancer for some ungodly reason, the one in the actual bed with the sickness would continue to debate with the doctor over the falseness of the accusation until one backs down. It is utterly tiring." I myself have gone through it multiple times, winning all of them of course.

Lestrade laughed once more, shaking his head. I could tell he understood exactly what I was saying, probably from his yard. If most of them are like the Donovan woman or Anderson, he must have his hands full on a daily basis; not accounting for Sherlock for that matter.

Raising his left hand, he gently placed it on my shoulder. He looked like he was going to start mentioning the possible doctor outside, but I had to be an idiot.

Of course I had to ruin the moment by noticing the bandages on his arms.

"What happened?"

Lestrade looked at his arm before glancing up again at me, a sheepish grin on his face, "Well... when they brought you in, you had lost a lot of blood. Even the doctors expected you to die if you were not given a blood transfusion. It figured that your type would be temporarily out for the moment so they came to me next, asking for my blood type. Apparently we are one and the same."

I let all of this soak in, a little shocked. Somebody did all of this for me? No, absolutely not. Not for a traitor, not for the likes of myself. Still, evidence never lies and now that I observed him more, he was lacking some color along with a small portion of his normally perfect balance. The more obvious facts were next to me, the tubes running in and out of my body like wires charging a battery. Sighing, I smiled and turned to Lestrade, my eyes still a little widened from the realization.

"So... you did a blood transfusion... for me?"

A firm nod, "Yeah. Your a good guy John; it doesn't take an idiot to see it. Besides, you are probably one of the few people Sherlock has actually tried... befriending per say."

It was a simple reply, but by the way he smiled when mentioned that name, Sherlock's name, it was obvious that it was a important deal for him. I recognized the look not only from him, but from Mrs. Hudson as well and a little from Molly. I never really understood the look and still didn't now. Was he some sort of troubled child? Is he capable of snapping (I highly doubt it)? What is wrong with Sherlock Holmes that most of the people he is close with are worried about it, that they are grateful for me for?

I was curious. Even though such an emotion was a flaw in most cases, I believed I had the right to know why. Besides, what else was I going to do as I laid here? I couldn't necessarily think; my mind already tearing itself to pieces with negativities. I couldn't move with all the injuries and the stubborn nurses and doctors around. I might as well ask this question now so I'm not plagued in a haze of demented mystery until somebody comes to clear it away.

"Why do you and Mrs. Hudson worry about Sherlock constantly? It's like you two are afraid he will snap or fall..."

Silence greeted my prompt and I awaited. After perhaps a minute or so, I peered over at the man next to me. He was looking down at his fingers, twiddling his thumbs in idle thought, "It's not that. We know he is a great man, Sherlock. His mind can recover anything and everything. We are reassured with the fact that he is a great man, but one day, perhaps soon, we hope that he will be a good one."

As he said those words, I mulled them over in my head, thinking them over.

"What do you mean 'a good one'?"

He sighed and ran his hand throughout his graying hair, "Eh... how do I explain this? Let's see, you know how he his from the week you have been with him right? Silent, to himself, utterly annoying, only showing annoyance and dismay to anyone except the special few?

"He is encased in his own throne and everyone knows he's a brilliant man, but nobody shows it correctly except you, I, Mrs. Hudson, and some others. How he can deduct a case in a minute when it could take my entire yard a week! It's a wonder, something miraculous, but deep down I know it's a double-edged sword. He could be brilliant, and turn to a criminal; especially with all the cases he has seen for input. He could be a consulting criminal, make up the job like his current one, but he could also be a good man. He could continue to use his brilliance to actually help people, not just for boredom but to actually do so.

"What I'm saying is that he's in the middle right now. He is stuck right down the middle and perhaps you can be the first step into pushing him to become the 'good man' I hope him to be."

I blinked, "You almost sound like your his father or something," I spoke before quickly adding in, "not implying your age and all. It's just the way you refer to him."

Lestrade chuckled, "No I understand you mate. I suppose you could say I'm an old friend but God forbid if you told him that he would just say he doesn't have any," a sigh, "I knew him when he was a kid, when he actually saw his first case. I was the only one to listen to him, but it wasn't enough. We still haven't found out what happened to that case, but I always knew Sherlock knew and that's what kept me in touch with him."

I felt a smile tug at my lips as I saw Lestrade go into a moderate state of remembrance.

The said state didn't last long though. Soon enough he was out of it in a blink of an eye and concentrated on me once more. He looked a tad bit guilty and nervous and knew what was coming up. Nonetheless, I looked down briefly at my fingers once more; watching as my nails messed with the skin outlining the others.

"Uh... John? Can I ask you some questions?"

I looked up, "Shoot."

Lestrade lowered his head, business on his face as plain as day, "It's about your abduction. We need a report on the people who took a hand in it."

"Ah..." I responded, a quick message of fear flitting through my head that I dashed aside, "Okay. Go ahead."

"Okay, do you know who the men were?"

I was going to shake my head before two names stood out like lights on a Christmas tree, "Moriarty. The other one I'm not really sure, but I remember a faint nickname... Sebby?"

Lestrade nodded, taking notes on a pad i didn't know he contained, "Do you know where you were held?"

"No."

He looked up at my quick response, "No? Are you sure john?"

I nodded, "Yes. It was... dark. I couldn't feel or see a thing besides a faint glimpse when the door opened and even then I was too blinded to take notice."

"Okay..." Lestrade wrote the last word down before looking up at me with concern, his pad to the side, "One more question for now, and it's going to be the hardest."

I gulped silently, knowing what it was before he said it.

"What happened John?"

"I... It was just a-"

_"Normal kidnapping wouldn't you say?" The malicious man in front of me spoke. He was testing me, testing my limits. Rationality was out the window by this point so I suppose I was where he wanted me._

_"I'm going to play a game with you, care to join?" my lead tongue held nothing to his remark, "Good. I will explain this game, though I suppose I will have to admit that this entire thing was not my ideal plan of torture. In all honesty, I would love to kill you on the spot, but I have my orders, and I do not disobey them... unlike you."_

_My head was hanging right now, the words he spoke entering and leaving my ear in the same motion._

_"He thought it was a good game, though I will admit that I prefer other sorts. Nonetheless, here it goes. This is all his words so you know, 'I will play a game with you. Every slash I make will be accompanied by a true remark. If you deny it or don't say anything, you will get a deep slash dangerously close to your vital organs. If you agree to the statement, you will only have the word that sticks out the most etched into your skin. Sound fair?'"_

_I groaned in reply and I could hear the chuckle from the aggressor, "Trust me. It only gets better."_

_Looking up at the man, or at least I hoped I was looking at him, I felt a mixture of a whimper and a sigh leave my throat. Soon after came gravel crawling up, somewhat resembling words in the process, "Why?"_

_A little bit of a huff from the other end and I could tell he was shrugging,"Because it's an order..."_

_I was about to respond in the normal 'Why don't you defy him' response when he added with a sadist tone to his voice, "And because I think it would be rather enjoyable myself. I've never tortured a soldier before so this will be... interesting. I just have to not kill you and I know many ways in this game to not do so."_

_I heard a sharp metal grind beside me and flinched._

_I was screwed, in simple terms. I held no back bone now with how much blood I have lost along with the utter circumstance of it all. I was more than likely in delirium and as I calculated earlier, that would only result in me believing anything. _

_In other words, this can end really really badly for me. Mentally incapable, physically scarred. Not a good mix, but of course I couldn't think of ways to ignore the words either. The only option I held was to endure them and battle with my will to accept or deny them. I just hope they are not as vague as I think they may be or I might be in danger; one cannot discern truth from lies if they are so ambiguous and enigmatic that it could be both._

_"I find it useless to tell you this since you can't do anything to retaliate really, but I was instructed to do so so I will comply," a sigh,"I'm going to begin now; there is no point in strengthening the little power you do have because I know exactly what to say... ex Army Dr. Watson, traitor."_

_I felt my body stiffen. No, this was only the first round, only the beginning. I can't become incapable right now. God, what kind of soldier would I be if I couldn't do this much?_

_"You know you are a mistake in your family, someone who isn't even spoken of in fear of being shunned," he sneered as he slashed my arms._

_I was quiet and that was my flaw; unable to respond if not finding the need to._

_"Reply Dr. Watson," he spoke, louder. A deep slash was driven to my upper abdominal areas, close to my already prominent rib cage. I winced, but made no noise. Right, no response, pain, but if I reply I still get pain. Double-edged sword._

_"I..." I forgot what I was going to say._

_"Yes?" He responded, his knife tip already pressed into my stomach, blood dripping slowly down my skin._

_"I... It's true."_

_"What's true?" he replied innocently. I had to admit it? Why? _

_"Oh, and don't say it dead, my boss said not to do that. You have to sound sincere, like you believe it."_

_But... the only way for me to act like I believe it now is for me to actually... believe it._

_Trying to work up the act, I felt the little voice in the back of my head finally speaking up. It wasn't holding back as it subconsciously doused me in materials to find his statement true. My father slapping me hard across my face; mentioning my mother and how unhappy she would be if she was alive. My past self responding in silence. My sister running out to break up the argument, but my father resisted her pleas. He looked at me then. Such... disgust in his eyes. His gaze was the sort you set on vermin, on filth, and that was what his son was to him now. I was nothing but the grime that covered London's sewers now. I faintly remembered him calling me a traitor, someone who shouldn't have been born if he was to be the cause of so many deaths. He told me to never come home again and set me off, nothing to my name except the guitar he threw back as if it was tainted in the same substance I was now presented in._

_It didn't take long for the emotions that gripped me then to shower me once more. Grief, remorse, guilt, and most of all, depression._

_"It's true,"I heard a voice say, hollow and full of despair. It took me a second to realize it was my own, "I'm a mistake to my family, someone that shouldn't have been born to uphold their name." _

_After mumbling those incoherent words, I tried to revert my mind back to what it was before, but I couldn't. I held no power to do it and therefore was stuck in this mind set. Had I not been tortured before this game, I probably would be able to do it, but I was stuck in a haze of grief now. Nothing can penetrate grief except either intense darkness or a bright light. Right now, it looked to be the first choice._

_A pat was given on my head and I flinched inwardly, "Good job Dr. Watson. Now what will it be? Mistake? I think the word suits you well."_

_I felt my head nod and my heart fell. This was only the first assertion of many._

_A cold blade ran through my skin, but I was numb from the other aching parts of my body. He formed each letter, carving into my flesh like a pumpkin and making sure the wound was deep enough to scar the word after it healed. _

_I didn't deny it, the words after they left my mouth. I didn't deny anything. Any response he gave me, I believed._

_"Your a traitor of your country, a man that should have died on the battlefield."_

_A hung head, "Yes. I'm such a man." _

_Another word: Traitor._

_"A man of lies, of fake personas, you have masks surrounding your deceiving intentions."_

_A faint trickle of tears, "It's all true. I'm a liar to everyone that knows me."_

_Repetitive outlines: Liar._

_My head was swimming to the brim with lies hidden between truths. It was like a endless monologue, but even had it ended, my mind would still continue it. It would will fill in the blanks of my faults willingly because it secretly wanted to ruin me, wanted to end me. To Sherlock, his thoughts, his own reminiscences were his sanctuary, but to me? My own was my demons, feeding hungrily on my despair and right now they were practically ravenous._

_I had lost count how many times he stated these ridiculous accountings that I couldn't have done. He said all of these fibs that screamed utter lies, but I was a child. Well, at least I reduced to the mind set of one._

_So many words plagued my mind like floating scars. I didn't know what was worse at that point, accepting them and being physically assaulted, or accepting them and being mentally incapable. _

_I didn't know when the game ended; all I knew was that black was starting to overpower my vision, and I knew this one wasn't the room._

_Voices. I remembered voices. They were faint, merging together as the seconds ticked by._

_"Oh Sebby, I told you to keep him alive."_

_"I did, or at least, last I checked he was. It isn't my fault if he didn't hold the will to live."_

_A stern voice, full of threats that would be fulfilled, "It will be your fault if he dies. You had a simple order to fulfill your sadistic tensions as long as his heart remained beating. You haven't disobeyed me yet, don't start now dear."_

_The attackers voice was silent before muttering, solemnly at that, "Yes, sir."_

_That was the last I remembered as my entire being collapsed, broken and under turmoil on whether to attempt in repairing it's cut off edges._

When I came to, Lestrade was next to me, hands on my shoulders and shaking them vigorously, "John? John mate, calm down. Shit, um... think of Sherlock. I don't know, just calm down and come back."

He was frantic as he looked from the beeping monitors to my convulsing form. It's funny though, I knew what was going on with my body, but it was like observing it with a third person perspective. I could see my hands, feel my entire body, trembling in increasingly rougher tremors. I could tell thus was all occurring, but I was able to observe other views as well like how Lestrade looked as he tried to get me out of the confusing state I was currently in.

Guilt ridden eyes trailed to the door of the room. I could see he was about to yell for the doctor, but he didn't need to. His mouth opened to yell for her name, and he even began to mouth the syllables, when she walked in briskly. The expression on her face was similar to a individual angry for somebody messing with something they were strictly told not to get mixed up in.

"What did you do?" She spoke accusingly like a stern mother. I saw Lestrade's shoulders slump as he was persecuted, but I held some respect for him when he didn't go silent but spoke to the dagger-eyed doctor.

"I was trying to get a statement on his abductors, as a detective should normally do in this case," he replied calmly though I could see fear flit in and out of his eyes.

The doctor was glaring at Lestrade, but that was all I could tell. My third person perspective was becoming limited, considerably darker and more blurry, as other symptoms began to appear. I was becoming warm, unbearably so, and I could feel the sweat starting to seep through as it tried to keep up with cooling it back to normal. My hospital garments were beginning to stick to my form uncomfortably as the sweat acted as glue. Why was I getting so warm? Did they turn the thermostat up or am I imagining this?

The doctor nor the detective inspector noticed this. They were too busy bickering among each other. I would have tried to get their attention but my tongue was lead and heavy. I couldn't move it if I tried though I wish I could. Their conversation, no matter the volume, was beginning to create a headache that only added to the chaos.

Can the two stop their bloody arguing? I thought bitterly, if she's a doctor, she should be able to sense this isn't the right way to act, especially right now.

"And you wonder why we don't let detectives in when we have a trauma patient,"the doctor muttered before pushing him out of the way to get to the machines by my bed side. Lestrade backed away willingly, all fight out of his lungs leaving him with only the apparition of worry to converse in. The doctor, however, was doing her job, and quite efficiently might I add. She started pressing buttons, determination on her face. After doing this for roughly a few seconds, she injected a serum into the tube connected to my body.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade questioned as he noticed no change.

"Stabilizing his vitals if possible," she responded as if common knowledge.

"Do you want me to get more doc-"

"No," she responded quickly, her jaw visibly clenching, "I shouldn't need anybody. I can take care of this."

"O...Kay," Lestrade spoke slowly before adding more with more strength, "I just want to be sure because that is my friend-"

"Yes I know Mr. Lestrade. To me, he's a fellow medical comrade and patient so let me tell you that I will not let him go into any severe a state than this."

He looked skeptical, "What's a more severe state than this? He's practically having a seizure!"

She eyed him with a level look that just spoke volumes, "unconsciousness. Currently speaking, that would not be good in his condition. He has to remain conscious considering how long it took us to get him to that point in the first place."

That caused all conversation to cease for the better as they came to a mutual point that my life was apparently more necessary than their adamant discomfort among each other.

I, on the other hand, was only feeling worse. I could feel my heartbeat in my cranium, bouncing along the walls of my head vigorously as if it was a wrecking ball. It was like a cage with a raging lion trying to claw at you. That wasn't it; I could hear it. It's irregular beat and quickening pace. I could take note of every piece of information on my heart right now by how close it felt to my head, by how it felt like it was my head.

The back of my brain, the coherent side, diagnosed this symptom as palpitations. Mentally shutting it up, I concentrated on keeping my head together. It was almost a losing battle, almost.

Lestrade hands were once again enforced on my shoulders when he noticed my gaze faltering to the darker side.

"What's happening to him?" He near shouted at the doctor and she turned to him, sharp brown eyes calculating whether to tell him or not.

"He's having a panic attack," she spoke with certainty. If I wasn't caught in this situation, I would sigh in relief right about now. I understand panic attacks. I just need to think of something calm, something that will help avert my attention from the trauma... the blood... the verdicts...

The cuts, the truths. I'm a mistake, a man that was cursed to kill everyone he associated with. More bruises, more scars. I was filth to my family name, I shouldn't have succumbed succumbed to what I did, should have ignored the morality seeping in. But I didn't. I didn't and now I'm here. Bloody. So much blood, too much dark.

I could feel my lungs constrict as I continued down this vicious circle. The air began to get thinner and thinner as my nerves screamed at me to breath, to take a deep breath.

I can't breath. Why can't I breathe?

"He's having difficulty breathing!" Lestrade relayed, glaring daggers at the doctor while looking worriedly at me, "What do we do?"

The doctor sighed and backed away. Placing her hands on her hips, she looked at Lestrade as if to judge him, "How close of a friend are you to Dr. Watson?"

Lestrade blinked before speaking, "Perhaps a week now?"

"A week?!" She scoffed.

"But!" He interjected, "I might be able to help. What does it matter?"

Placing a hand to her face in a mellow state of disbelief, she sighed and replied with a slight annoyed tone to her voice, "You need to calm him down with something unrelated to the topic that triggered him to go into the state."

"Like?" Lestrade prompted.

"Like," she replied, "a friend, an act of kindness. It has to be something that will avert his conscious down a smoother path."

Lestrade thought for a moment before nodding with a grim smile, "I think I know what will help."

After he said those words, he stopped shaking my figure and looked me straight in the eyes. Worry was evident, but he masked it well with a soft expression that lessened the volume of the heartbeats ever so slightly.

"Hey mate. I know that you barely know me, I mean, I only met you a few times, but listen to me alright? Let's just go down memory lane for a bit. Remember who got you of that street? The man that spared a look at you when nobody else would? I think you know who I'm talking about. The only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes. He's a great man, and a good one as well from the way he helped you. You know he's never given a second thought about anybody? You are his exception so don't you dare go unconscious now or he might not find another one."

I could feel the air come back into my lungs with ease as he continued, "he never told me why he decided you were a good pick, but it must have been something different, eh? I remember him mentioning your love for the guitar. He isn't exactly expressive to you musician sorts but he took notice of your skills didn't he? You must have been good I'd say. Some sort of virtuous prodigy, whatever it's pronounced as, to gather his interest. Now listen here, you have to calm down otherwise how else would you play? Nobody can play with shaky fingers now can they?"

The pressure in my head resided slowly as he spoke. I didn't know how he was doing it, but he was calming me down by mentioning Sherlock of all people. God, now I owe the bored, insufferable detective more than I already did.

Nonetheless, as he kept repeating this along with questions he knew I was unable to answer, my breaths were catching up to me. I was soon accompanied by another headache from the lack of air given, but that was perfectly fine compared to not breathing at all. Bloody awful.

Lestrade also visibly relaxed, a smile on his face as his pointless babbling worked.

"There we go mate. Deep breaths. Just think of Sherlock and how much you probably really want to knock him out right now. That's pretty much my mind process so I wouldn't mind in the slightest. I think everyone thinks he deserves one good slap upside the head currently, and his arrogant attitude doesn't help in the either."

The only symptom remaining at this point was the trembling. Nonetheless, I gave a small smile albeit shaky.

"But we need the idiot," Lestrade's voice got slightly deeper, more assertive, "and you do too apparently. You both need each other regardless of his being a pain in the neck."

The doctor eyed our exchange with baffled skepticism as my vitals returned to a stable point. She look mystified but also a little annoyed considering this wasn't exactly the normal topic to use in calming down patients. Well, at least it was working.

Giving a sigh, I smiled a little at Lestrade as he pushed away from my shoulders. With a light squeeze, he released his death grip.

Where as he was calm and reassured by my smile, I was internally frightened out of my mind from what just happened.

"God..." I muttered shaking my head, "What was that?" The question was rhetorical but the doctor answered anyways.

"What you experienced was a panic attack, a medial scale one at that." She spoke as if she was higher than me, one that should be taken word of over myself.

I rolled my eyes a little, already sensing the territorial annoyance I explained to Lestrade earlier, "I know that doctor. What I meant to say was what brought it on."

Taking the clipboard off the edge of the bed, she flipped the page to the back before meeting my gaze once more, "Your trauma. Due to the degree of severity, your mental state has been altered I'm sure you have noticed. With that said, your mind in specially more susceptible to Non-Epileptic seizures, or psychogenic ones in your case."

Leaning back on the uncomfortable bed, I groaned at the pain from the abdomen but otherwise remained passive, "Great. Just my luck," I sighed, "What brought them on if I may ask?"

The doctor smiled at my polite question before responding, "Panic attacks are a psychiatric condition. They can happen  
in frightening situations, when remembering previous  
frightening experiences," she glared at Lestrade when she spoke this,"or in a situation that the person  
expects to be frightening. To sum it up, the torture you went through and remembering what occurred caused you to enter this state."

I nodded, understanding finally flitting to my features, "And how long will these occur do you know?"

A sigh from her end as she glared at the DI once more, "It depends on how often you try to remember it. If it's often, then not for a couple of months at the least. If you do small relapses every so often, then maybe a few weeks. I can't be sure since everyone is different and has a different set of standards and lifestyles," she spoke before concluding, "If you try not to force the memory to occur or appear, it will be gone sooner, or at the very least, become less severe."

"Ah, okay. Thank you doctor."

She gave another smile at me and I caught me grinning back as well, "Just call me Sarah."

Nodding, I let the name roll along my tongue, "thank you... Sarah."

I saw her face flush at my mentioning her name. She looked as if she was trying to hide it as she looked down at the clipboard. I wanted to laugh at her reaction, but found it to be rude and decided against it. A angry doctor makes for a very uncomfortable patient considering they can do anything and say anything and everybody will take their words over your own.

After a second, she looked up, only faint patches of pink remaining on her cheeks from before.

"Your welcome. Ah, is there anything I can do for you? Since you recently had a panic attack-"

"- I'm more susceptible to another for the next hour or so," I finished.

"Correct," she smiled again. She had a pretty smile now that I actually looked. To be honest, she was stunning, but out of my league so to speak. Smart, beautiful, a doctor; she was definitely out of my area.

Still, now that she asked... where is my guitar? The only thing I can be certain of is that perhaps I lost it in my abduction. Great. That's my second guitar I lost this week alone. Fantastic.

Well, might as well ask her if the hospital has one per chance.

"Ah... do you have a guitar?" I asked, a little uncomfortable for asking for such. I didn't know what reaction I would get for asking for the instrument, especially because I could sense the doubt in her features. It was brief, gone in an instant in fact, but it was definitely there.

Instead of advising some other absurd habit to get into, she responded differently.

Tilting her head, she thought it over, "yes, I believe we do in the recreational area. Do you wish for me to get it?"

I nodded, "Yes, please. That would be perfect."

After pardoning herself, she left the room quickly. I followed her brown hair as it tailed her out the door.

I heard a whistle beside me, "Awake for only a half hour and you already have a crush; color me jealous mate."

I laughed and shook my head, "it's not like that. She's just kind is all; it's how doctors are supposed to treat their patients."

He chuckled along, "Yeah keep telling yourself that but all she gave me was glares that could kill."

"You did annoy her with setting me on my episode," I reminded him with a chuckle.

"True." He laughed with me and it was then that I noticed the bags under his eyes. I decided not to mention It at this moment since I knew he would only counter it with my condition.

I sighed and leaned back on the bed, "What am I going to do? I've never dealt with this before, or at the very least, not this severe."

Lestrade patted my shoulder, "Tell Sherlock so he knows. I'm sure he will be able to deduct it in a seconds notice, but warn him anyways. He tends to not listen," a laugh, "Also, perhaps take it easy?"

I smiled at Sherlock's name, "He might not think anything of it. But I suppose you're right."

Lestrade nodded and relaxed in the chair, looking about to pass out in the uncomfortable piece of furniture.

"Whatever you do, just know that these next few months are going to be utter hell."

I laughed, "You're funny. I've been to hell and I have been cursed to live and tell the tale."

* * *

_See what I mean? Sloppy. Nope. Not good. At least, not for my high tower of expectations. *sigh* _

_Okay, well, at least it's a long chapter to make amends for the week delay._

_Oh! As for John, he suffers from a more adamant PTSD, though it isn't physical. Due to the method Moran used, it was more mental than not. I know in the original series this would not phase the doctor, but this John has gone through more than his fair share of unfortunate events. He will be basically normal except he will... you know what? I shall let you find out since, especially in the next three chapters I have planned, it becomes quite noticeable what his remaining symptoms are. Don't worry, no more panic attacks for at least those three chapters though I am very very tempted._

_I introduced another character, didn't you notice? This Fria Dubois? More flashbacks except a minor love interest thing since I love writing tragedies. Not by choice, just by method. But yes, she will be mentioned, if I have it my way that is, in the next chapter._

_Oh. Another thing. John will sing a song next chapter, with Sherlock popping in because with the way I have things set, he will somehow end up around John when he sings. It just accidentally turns out that way. Again, not by choice, just by method._

_Now I must leave you lovely readers to finish the next chapter for this along with chapter 1 and 2 of SPD..._

_Review/Critique. Both are very much welcome in this! Always!_

_Ciao~_


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